


A Conversation at Dragonstone

by christah88



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Game of Thrones Universe, Gen, episode fillers, season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2018-12-14 12:21:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 56,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11783067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christah88/pseuds/christah88
Summary: COMPLETED SEASON 7 JONERYS COMPANIONChapter 1: Post 7x03 - Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen discuss destiny, prophecies, fate… and hope.Chapter 2: Pre 7x04 - Daenerys, frustrated at her floundering position, searches for a diversion.Chapter 3: Early 7x05 - Jon, beset by a morbid turn of mind, looks for some peace- and a reason to keep fighting.Chapter 4: Mid 7x05 - Dany sets out in search of Jon Snow the night before he is to leave.Chapter 5: Post 7x06 - Jon comes upon a Dany in mourning on the cliffs of Dragonstone.Chapter 6: Mid 7x07 - Jon struggles to keep an illicit thought under the surface.Chapter 7: Late 7x07 - A door opens, the winding path beyond leading toward home. Jon and Dany take it.





	1. Prophecies and Fate

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://christah88.tumblr.com/) if you're interested in painfully slow updates on the progress of my novel, _First Generation._

“What do you know of the Prince who was Promised?” the Queen asked.

Jon blinked. He shifted uncomfortably, fingers toying with the grooves carved in her map.

“I suppose I heard the legend of the lost hero as much as any child in Westeros, Your Grace,” he said, then reconsidered, eyes traveling up the King’s Road, north to Winterfell- and the Wall. “More, perhaps,” Jon mused, “being as I’m from the North.”

The Queen turned, her boots clicking upon the stone floor as she stepped around the map opposite him. “Yes,” she sighed, “but seeing as I did _not_ spend my childhood in Westeros, perhaps you can indulge me and tell me what you know, my lord?”

Jon’s eyes lifted to hers in spite of himself. She stood, waiting, still but for the torchlight throwing shadows about her cheekbones, the fine ridge of her nose. He looked down quickly, studying instead the carved sigil of House Stark, small and sharp in his hand.

“Of course,” he answered, then cleared his throat awkwardly. “The Prince who was Promised, or Azor Ahai come again, will be born from salt and smoke under a bleeding star to wield a sword of light against the armies of darkness.” He paused, set the fine wooden direwolf down on the table, interlocked his fingers behind his back, and forced himself to meet her eyes again. “It’s all rather- imprecise, Your Grace. Full of images and symbols,” Jon shook his head in contempt. “I’ve never understood the allure of prophesies, myself,” he muttered.

She placed a hand upon the table, tilted her head at him, eyebrows raised. “And why is that, Jon Snow?” she asked.

Jon shrugged, shoulders tight. “It’s just-” he started, considered how to explain himself. “They’re not much help to those of us going about the business of living, now are they?” He looked up at her, then, dared her to challenge him.

Her lips curled, and she huffed a breath through her nose- the closest expression Jon had seen to a laugh from her yet. And it had been a year, or more, since Jon had inspired anyone to a reaction even close to laughter.

“Do you always preoccupy yourself with the business of life, my lord?” she asked. “Do you never set aside an hour or two to consider the wonders, the mysteries beneath it all?”

Jon felt his brow furrow. He stared down at Kingsport, the road to Harrenhal, the bridge through the Twins. “No, Your Grace,” he answered, “not in a long time.”

“Hmm,” the Queen mused, then picked up her hand from the table, turned away from him and leaned against it. While she faced the opposite wall, Jon permitted his eyes to travel the lines, the fine curls, the warm glow of her hair. He recalled the maester at Winterfell instructing him and Robb- and Theon, too- when they were young of the Targaryen dynasty. ‘Fierce, like dragons,’ he had said, ‘implacable, not quite of this world, with hair like sunlight in a storm.’ The words could never do it justice- meeting the Queen was like seeing a dragon: one can’t ever know what it’s like until the mighty shadow is upon them.

“The Priestess Melisandre paid me a visit when first I landed on Dragonstone,” she said unexpectedly. Jon felt the old tension- the anger and disgust, the reluctant gratitude and, ultimately, fear- snag down his spine at her name. The Queen looked over her shoulder at him, and Jon realized that his fingers clutched the edge of the table tightly enough to leave claw marks. He released his hold with some effort and straightened.

“Oh?” was all he said.

Daenerys rolled her eyes at him. “Yes, _‘oh,’_ ” she said. “She claimed that, though she had once served another, she now believed that the prophecy referred to _me."_ She fixed him with a look, then, steadfast and piercing.

Jon’s fingertips rubbed uneasily just above his breastbone, until he realized what he was doing, and forced his hands behind his back again. “Well, that makes a good deal more sense than Stannis, I’ll give her that,” he grumbled.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Why?” she asked.

“Well, for one, Stannis is dead,” he said baldly, “and you’re not.” He paused, glancing up to catch her reaction.

A strange smile lit her face, wide eyes bright. “Not yet,” she amended, a twist to her mouth.

“So I think I’ll agree with Melisandre that the leader who will guide us out of the coming winter is not a dead man,” he said, oddly propelled by a compulsion to maintain that curl in her lips, the light in her eyes, “seeing as how I’m so preoccupied with the business of life.”

She smiled up at him, twisting her waist against the table.

Jon’s mouth went dry at the firelight coiling in her hair. He looked down at the table again, momentarily unable to think of what they had just been speaking of.

She turned forward again. “Come here, my lord,” the Queen said decisively.

He shifted between his feet for a moment, casting about wildly for some way to refuse her, to put himself safely back on dry land. He could find no such path for himself, so sucked in a breath and dove bravely out to sea, crossing around the table to stand uncomfortably beside her.

She looked straight ahead, eyes locked on the open window outside where black tides crashed against the castle and dragons circled the sea-salt air.

“I summoned you because Lady Melisandre told me to,” she said unexpectedly.

Jon fought down against the rising wave of tension again, but it was unbearable, turning his bones to stone, his blood to ice.

“What did she tell you?” he demanded, more abrupt than he intended.

Daenerys looked at him curiously. “She said much of what Ser Davos told me,” she answered. “That you convinced wildlings to fight for your cause, that you could be an important ally.” She paused, her fingers brushing against the silver dragon curled just left of her throat. “She thought you had some part to play in what’s to come, same as I.” The Queen looked back up at Jon, then, blue eyes glassy in the midnight fires. “I rather thought she considered you as an alternative Azor Ahai, if I did not prove to measure up.”

Jon snorted, relief loosening his normally stiff posture, and he leaned his hip against the table, arms crossed. “By the old gods and the new, I hope not,” he muttered.

This surprised her, he could tell. “Why not?” she asked. “You do not strike me as a man to shy away from a higher purpose-”

“Why are we talking about this?” Jon demanded, his teeth set on edge by her turn of phrase. “I thought you didn’t concern yourself with myths and legends.”

“I don’t set my faith or make my decisions by them, no,” Daenerys said, “but I am concerned with all things that refer to me and my destiny.”

“Destiny?” Jon repeated, feeling as though he’d missed a step down a serpentine stair, too startled to check the distaste in his voice. “Do you really believe your every move has been charted in the stars, or _wherever,_ tracing out a sure path to your very end?” He shook his head, uncertain why his ire had risen so. “What about the choices you’ve made, the wars you’ve turned around and won, the people you’ve convinced to follow you? Don’t tell me it’s all happened as part of some distant plan, that _you_ were not the deciding factor that _made_ it happen,” he begged her.

“You misunderstand me, Jon,” she said, sliding a hair’s breadth closer against the table. “I believe all of us were born with a certain destiny inside of us, yes,” she was close enough for Jon to see the soft cracks, the slight imperfections on her lips, so he set his eyes determinedly upon the dragon at her shoulder, “and perhaps some talented seers have peered into the web of possibilities, and seen a future where a hero fulfilled his, or _hers,”_ her chin lifted half an inch, “and so helped forestall a disaster that would trickle down and poison the rest of the world.”

“Then why bother?” Jon asked, interrupting her next thought. “If some hero is destined to come forward and save us all, what am I even doing here? Why am I working so hard to get people I’ve never met to believe me that a very real threat is coming-”

“I’ll tell you if you let me finish,” Daenerys said lightly, but her words cracked like a whip to Jon’s ears, and he stumbled back a step, remembering abruptly that, though the hour was late and the shadows crawled like dreams upon the walls, he was holding private counsel with the Dragon Queen.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” he said awkwardly, “I believe I forgot myself.”

“Not at all, my lord,” she set both hands upon the table behind her, unconsciously (or consciously, Jon wasn’t sure) opening herself into a position of vulnerability before him. Jon felt his shoulders loosen again. “In truth, I find your conversation… refreshing, Jon Snow.” Her head tilted a fraction of an inch, white-gold curls coiling together down her arm. Her wide eyes set him a steady glance, and he realized she was waiting for him to respond.

He blinked. “Really?” he heard himself ask, lip quirking upward.

“Mm,” she hummed her assent, then sighed. “I’m afraid I’ve spent so much of my recent time debating with Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys, I had rather forgotten it was possible to have a discussion without continual clever one-upmanship.”

Jon huffed a laugh. “I am glad they’re not here now,” he said, “I could never hope to win such a contest.”

“Yes,” Daenerys agreed, “I’m glad they’re not here, too.”

Jon met her eyes, startled, and felt his heart pulsing against his battered chest at the look on her face. It must be the firelight, Jon thought, that softened her cheekbones so, laid bare the smooth column of her neck, set a glassy sheen to her gaze.

The moment stretched between them, and Jon found himself unable to look away. Though he had come face-to-face with the Night King and his army of the dead, he hadn’t truly believed all he’d heard the people say about Daenerys Targaryen, the lost princess across the Narrow Sea. But here she stood, three dragons, three armies, and the most beautiful woman in the world.

Jon coughed and dropped his gaze to her feet.

“I believe we were speaking of our destinies, Jon Snow,” he heard a twist of mirth in her voice, and felt assured that there had been a battle of wills between them, and that he had lost.

“Aye, Your Grace,” he agreed.

“And how you do not believe a prophecy should have any part to play in the war to come,” she prodded.

“I can’t,” he said. “I might as well give up my sword and live the rest of my days in a cave set in the mountainside.”

“Something tells me you would like that quite well,” she smiled at him. He shrugged, uncomfortable again.

“A prophecy is only a possibility,” she continued, “and destiny is only a person’s true potential.” She looked down at his inquiring look, picked up the carved dragon signaling her improbable return. “Ser Barristan told me that my brother Rhaegar was convinced the prophecy referred to himself,” she told him. “And he set his other responsibilities aside, determined it was his duty to see the prophecy fulfilled. Near the end of his life, he was less sure, Barristan thought. And then he died,” she set the dragon down, “so it couldn’t have meant him.” She looked up again, leaned in close, painfully sincere. “But what if it _could_ have been Rhaegar?” she asked. “What if Rhaegar just made the wrong choices and so the destiny shifted to someone else?”

Jon pondered this, the question evidently close to the Queen’s heart. “I don’t… quite understand what you mean,” he admitted.

“Every one of us face a hundred choices every day,” she said, “what if- your whole life- every single choice you made was the right one?” She gazed up at him, deadly serious, lips parted. “What if you could walk down the very best possible path of your life, though it be not pleasant or easy, though it be bloody and damned painful at times? Wouldn’t then, at the end of it all, you turn back and look at the changes you’ve caused in the world, the ripples you’ve left behind, and say that you fulfilled your destiny?”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Jon said. “How can you ever be sure that every choice you make is right?”

Daenerys leaned back against the table again, crossed her arms and held her elbows. “That’s where the faith comes in,” she said wryly.

Jon thought of Olly, twitching at the end of a rope. He thought of Lord Janos Slynt’s head rolling down the mount. “I can’t second-guess every choice I make,” he said honestly. “I don’t have time for that.”

The shadows danced in the curve of her smile. “I suppose we do have something in common, then.”

Jon looked at the tip of her nose, her face in profile to him. “Why concern yourself with prophecies?” he asked gently. “Particularly such a shameful one?”

Daenerys turned to him in surprise. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“The story of Azor Ahai,” he clarified, “and his wife, Nissa Nissa.”

Her eyes flicked between his. “I’m not familiar, Jon Snow,” she said.

“Oh,” Jon pulled back, startled to discover once again how very foreign her upbringing had been. “Azor Ahai dreamed that he would bring forth a burning sword to use against the dead,” he explained. “And so, he woke up, forged a sword, and tempered it in water, but it didn’t work, so he tempered it in the blood of a beast he had slain, but that didn’t work either.” Jon shook his head, disgusted as always by the end of the tale. “So he sacrificed his wife, Nissa Nissa, tempered the blade in her blood by plunging his sword through her heart, and in that way Lightbringer came forth.”

Daenerys raised her brow, chewed her lip. “I see,” she said quietly. “And these stories, they all refer to Azor Ahai as the lost hero who will come again, the Prince that was Promised?”

Jon shrugged. “I don’t know,” he answered. “I’ve never paid them much thought.”

“Of course not,” she huffed a laugh to herself. “Well, Jon Snow, perhaps you _are_ the Prince that was Promised, as Lady Melisandre thought you might be,” Jon stared at her, feeling as though the floor had given way beneath his feet. “And perhaps _I_ am Azor Ahai come again.”

“What do you-” Jon started, then shifted to the more important question. “How can you think of yourself in such a light?” he demanded. “Willing to sacrifice an innocent on the basis of some flimsy dream or prophecy?” He thought of what Ser Davos had told him, the Princess Shireen burnt to ashes on a stake, and his anger mounted.

“Not on the basis of a dream or a story,” Daenerys said, “but if the choices were laid before me, and a sacrifice made by my hand to save an untold number of people-” she sighed, then, shook her head. “I have long accepted that being a Targaryen means that within me lies a swath of coldness a mile deep, Jon Snow.” She looked at him, and Jon felt a frozen gasp run down his spine at the steel trap behind her eyes. “From another’s point of view, I might be called ruthless, brutal, unsympathetic- even mad.” Her eyes narrowed, twin iron darts. “But from _my_ point of view, I am pragmatic. I do what must be done, what others cannot do, to free the enslaved, to break the wheel of oppression- and I started with myself.”

She turned again to the window where her children roamed, free and fearsome. “My dragons were born in the blood of my husband and our child, Jon,” she said. “He was only alive for a moment, the most beautiful moment the gods must ever have witnessed.” Her tongue flicked out and moistened her lips, her jaw tightening with suppressed feeling. “Knowing what I know now- that their deaths paid for the births of my children, could I go back and let it happen again?” She turned to him, eyes wet but hard. “Who is to say? I don’t know the answer to that. But one led to the other, I see that clearly. Sacrifices must always be made, Jon,” she said, “and there must always be people to make them.”

Jon swallowed, shaken to his core by what she had said.

He watched, stunned, as she pulled herself out of her remembered agony, and turned to him with a smile.

“Come,” she said, “tell me something happy about yourself.”

“What?” Jon asked, dumbfounded, wondering if perhaps she was a bit mad after all.

“You can’t be a hero without being a man once in a while,” she explained. “Otherwise- as you said- what’s the point?”

Jon watched one of the smaller dragons- Viserion, he thought- swoop ten yards away from the open window, peering a beady eye inside before circling back to his rounds. A warning to Jon that he was out there, Jon rather thought.

Something happy about himself, he pondered. When was the last time he was truly, purely happy? Not when the men of the Watch voted him Lord Commander, certainly not when the Northern lords declared him King. In a cave, perhaps, north of the Wall, where mist rose off pools with hot springs below, and a woman with red hair moaned into his lips, called his name in a way it had never been said before-

But he couldn’t very well tell the Dragon Queen _that._

She took pity on him, seeing him flounder. “I’ll go first, shall I?” she asked. She smiled at his curious look. “If we are to work together, as you’ve been telling me we must, we should know something of each other as people, not just as rulers, should we not?”

He felt a quirk of his lips answer her smile. “Alright,” he said, intrigued.

“When I was very young,” Daenerys started, shifting against the table to face him again, “my brother and I lived in Braavos, in a house with a red door. My first memories were within this house- it was the closest place I’ve ever known to home, and if I could-” she stopped, sighed. “Our tutor made sure we learned an exact history of our ancestors,” she continued, “made quite certain we were aware of just how far our family had fallen, to end with us, two children, exiled across the sea to a house with a red door. Sometimes Viserys and I would play-act the stories he told us. Viserys was always Aegon, of course, and I was always his hapless sister along for the ride, or his feckless bride, or both.” She laughed at the memory. Jon felt his eyebrows slide toward his hairline.

“But alone, it was different,” she said, voice edging toward a whisper. “I was Aegon the Conqueror, and Good Queen Alysanne, and Baelor the Brave – and I was Daenerys Targaryen, lost daughter of the greatest dynasty the world had ever seen, with a dragon beneath me, strong and fearsome, beautiful and loved. I would climb up to the attic, through the window to the ridge tower, just after supper when the servants were busy. I would turn my sights to the Narrow Sea, and think of Westeros, where my parents, my grandparents, my great-grandparents, and on and on, lived and died. I would watch the sun set on Braavos, blood red, feel the night wind spray my face, and pretend I was returning home on the back of a dragon.” She smiled to herself. “It was the happiest I ever felt in those days- and the most free.”

“And look at you now,” Jon commented, not sure what else to say.

“Yes,” Daenerys mused, “but the freedom part has not quite turned out the way I imagined,” she said, “and with it, some of the happiness has leached out.”

“Why-” Jon paused, catching himself before he was too forward, then remembered how she had encouraged him to speak freely at every stop and turn, so barreled on. “Why have you come to Westeros, truly?” he asked. “When you already have a kingdom that loves you across the sea?”

Her lips thinned, eyes growing hard. “I’ve been a lost girl all my life, Jon,” she said. “Westeros is my home, and the only way I can return is to take it.” She looked at him, almost a glare. “What did you think, when you heard the Targaryen girl had brought dragons into the world again, claimed three cities and three armies as her own, and yet turned her sights across the sea? Did you think I simply wanted to see if I could, that I just wanted to add the Seven Kingdoms to my list of possessions?”

Jon looked down, somewhat shamed. “I suppose I did,” he admitted, “but honestly, I didn’t think of it in any depth-”

“I know,” she waved away his explanation. “You’ve been busy.” She inhaled a deep breath, straightened, took three steps away from him, the mantle of her cloak swinging gracefully about her ankles. “Do you think the world wanted to give me my freedom from the Dothraki?” she asked. “Do you think the world wanted to give me three dragons, to inspire fear in the masters and break the chains of the enslaved?” She turned to him. “Do you think the world wants me to have a home, a place where I belong?” She shook her head. “No,” she said, “everything I have, I have because I took it. And I _will_ come home, Jon Snow, just as I promised myself when I was a little girl.”

This odd silver feeling coiling in his gut was respect, Jon knew, and it was quickly twisting into admiration.

She walked toward the window, leaned against the stone frame. “It’s your turn, now,” she said softly, “tell me something happy about you.”

Jon swallowed, considered. “Before I joined the Night’s Watch,” he said, “when the Starks were still whole, my father found a nest of direwolf pups in the woods. There were six- one each for the Stark children, and the runt of the litter for me.” He smiled sadly to himself. “I’m afraid Ghost is the only one left, now. Arya’s might still be out there, running wild, and Bran- if he’s alive- but the others,” he shook his head. “They all died at the hands of our enemies.”

“That’s not very happy,” the Queen replied.

“No,” Jon barked a short laugh. “I don’t know what you expected from me. But Ghost has been a good companion, a good guardian, a true friend.”

She looked at him, a soft smile curling her lovely mouth. “Good,” she said gently, “the gods know those are not always easy to find.”

She yawned then, fingers fluttering up to hide her pink tongue from his view.

“It’s late,” he observed, “I should leave you.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “We’ll reconvene here in the morning.”

“Shall I call Missandei-” he began, attempting to be courteous, but she waved him away.

“No need,” she said, “I will stay a while longer yet.”

Jon paused in the doorway, looked at her propped up against the windowsill, her dragons still circling above the rippling sea, their outlines gleaming in the moonlight.

“Well,” he said, trying not to be awkward, “good night, then, Your Gr-”

“Daenerys,” she said, her voice like an order from a general. She turned, raised an eyebrow, and waited when he didn’t respond.

“Good night,” he forced himself to say, “Daenerys,” the informality scraped like stone against glass down his spine.

“Good night, Jon Snow,” she said and turned, dismissing him from her presence.

Jon clipped his way down the stone hallway back towards his chambers.

It wasn’t as though he suddenly believed in fate, he thought. He still didn’t put much stock in destiny, and he really didn’t want to waste another moment pondering a millenniums-old prophecy set down by some doddering old seer.

But if Daenerys Targaryen believed that it was her destiny, with her dragons, and her armies, and her painful beauty, her passion, her good heart, and her spine made of pure steel, to fight alongside him against the coming darkness, so she could claim Westeros as her home…

Well, Jon found that he felt a bit better about the fate of the world, after all.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.


	2. Attraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre episode 7x04 "The Spoils of War." Daenerys, frustrated at her floundering position, searches for a diversion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this sure was fun to write! Thank you all for reading and for your lovely encouragement! Please leave me a comment if you enjoy this chapter.

“What update have you on the King in the North?” Daenerys asked indifferently.

Tyrion halted the oft-repeated movement of his wine cup to his mouth.

“He continues to search for the material he seeks, but has not as yet been successful,” Tyrion reported before inhaling another sip of his Dornish red.

Daenerys expended great mental energy on not rolling her eyes. Sometimes, the manner in which the dwarf responded to his daily drink was simply- _excessive._ One would think he was partaking in some ecstasy-inducing activity that really should be kept private. One would think he preferred wine to food, or gold, or-

-a certain physical activity that she was doubtful he had much indulged in since entering her service.

The gods knew it had been quite some time for her, as well.

“What is taking him so long?” Daenerys asked, her irritation sniping outward at the absent third party.

Tyrion shrugged, set his cup on the table, swallowed down his last gulp. “He says there are multiple tunnels with entrances set all over the island. They’ve explored at least half of them so far, but as yet none have led to the mines in question.”

“What are the tunnels for, then?” Dany asked, intrigued in spite of herself.

“Hiding spots? Mines that were cleared out long ago? Perhaps the first inhabitants of the island preferred to live underground,” Tyrion suggested.

“So you don’t know,” she clarified dryly.

“Does anyone ever really know anything?” he mused. “Or do we simply extrapolate from our surroundings using context and personal experiences in attempt to arrive at the best possible conclusions?”

“I know that you have had enough wine to fall asleep easily at quite an early hour tonight,” Daenerys informed him.

“Ah,” Tyrion raised the pitcher at her in esteem, “but that you extrapolated from my previous behavior of passing out in a drunken sprawl even before the sun had set.”

Daenerys sighed and turned to the window.

She appreciated Tyrion’s insight into Westerosi politics, and she held a great amount of respect for him and the challenges he’d overcome... but sometimes she rather thought their relationship would be improved with a bit of distance.

And now she didn’t even have the company of the Greyjoy queen or the Dornish princess to grease the squeaky hinge.

There was always Lord Varys, Dany thought with little enthusiasm.

The Greyjoy fleet and the Dornish army had turned and fled after learning their commanders had been captured. Daenerys couldn’t say she blamed them: whatever else their faults, the Starks at least were resolute in their warning to the Seven Kingdoms, and winter was here.

Perhaps she should send Tyrion to convince the Dornish to return; then, at least, he would no longer be underfoot, annoying her at every turn, and who knew? Maybe he would return to her with her missing army.

Maybe the Dornish would simply forget that their Prince had died in his defense, that their Princess and her children were murdered by a Lannister bannerman.

Dany dug her fingernails in the windowsill and closed her eyes.

This was turning out to be more tedious than she had expected.

It had all seemed so simple only weeks ago. She had three dragons, three armies, and a kingdom of her own in Meereen. She’d had three allies with three more armies, and a fourth on his way to treat with her.

Now, though- she could hardly believe how boring it was to wage war from afar. She had half a mind to change plans and head North with this Jon Snow, just to see if there actually were dead men and snarks beyond the Wall as he claimed.

It was either that, or send Lord Varys to treat with the Ironborn. Gods knew she needed a bit of entertainment.

Daenerys cricked her neck, tried vainly to loosen her shoulders. Her frustration was a twisting, coiling snake in her tummy, and it wound its way up her rigid spine into her brittle shoulder blades, coming to rest, heavy and suffocating, on her throat.

“Come, drink with me,” Tyrion exhorted her. The snake squeezed its way around her neck. “What else is there to do but drink and while away the hours with a friend?”

That was the point, though, wasn’t it? Daenerys wasn’t fond of sitting around, waiting for news to arrive. She wasn’t used to it, either. She wanted to be out in the world, doing something, anything, really, at this point-

“We’ve been through every possible response,” Tyrion said gently when Dany didn’t move from the window. She felt a sharp fang sink into her chest, another in her stomach. “There isn’t anything else we can do-”

“Excuse me, my lord,” Daenerys said brusquely, pushing away from the window and crossing toward the door. “Good evening to you,” she gave him a curt nod before turning her back on him and heading for the hall. Tyrion had just enough time to lift his glass in a half-hearted toast before she left.

Dany clipped down the hallway unseeingly.

She was doing the right thing, wasn’t she? Returning to Westeros to claim her home and save it from the clutches of a brutal tyrant?

Of course she was, she told herself angrily.

She’d dreamed, planned, worked for this for years. It would be a terrible disrespect to her own struggles and those of the people who followed her here, to second-guess herself now.

Besides, it wasn’t as though she could simply turn tail and go back to Meereen. She could take over the Stormlands, she supposed, give their Houses and their fields to her men, hole up with her protectors and her dragons on the island, her ancestral home.

But- then- what would have been the point? she wondered. Surely the gods gave her three dragons for more than that.

She stopped on the gallery outside, looked at the orange-tinged sky, her eyes following Drogon as he jumped from cliff to cliff, head twisting back and forth.

He, at least, was happier here than she had ever known him to be. Rhaegal and Viserion, too, seemed to take endless delight in soaring about the open skies, exploring the little islands that dotted the mainland nearby. She heard a screech, then, Viserion’s call to play, she thought. Drogon lifted his head, peered at the horizon, and dove off the cliffside, sailing across the black seas to find his brothers.

Dany smiled to herself and rested her head against a winding stone pillar. She _could_ stay here- call off the war- focus on building some economy for her people. It rained at Dragonstone a bit more than she liked, but there were clear days, too, like today- days when the sun broke through silver clouds and rain drops rose in clear mists from the sandy beaches, when the smell of the tide and the foreign countryside settled like warm honey on her soul.

She wondered, just for a moment, what it would be like. To stay, to pull back, to make Dragonstone her home.

She’d never had a home before, not truly. One where she could lay back easily, set down her burdens like labyrinthine roots in the ground, steadying her, making her strong.

She could make Dragonstone her own, respecting the traditions and artistry of her ancestors, but adding her own touch- a flair of the exotic, she thought, from her time in Essos, a hint of softness, to remind those who lived there that it was home, after all- she could paint every door red-

And then what? Dany thought scornfully. Is that how she would leave this world, her great mark at the end of the Targaryen legacy- red doors-

Someday, she thought, and closed her eyes against the late afternoon breeze.

Her eyes fluttered open again at the sound of voices below.

Jon Snow and a handful of men trudged along the cliffside, hauling great stacks of lumber and bundles of tools between them.

Dany’s eyes travelled the tops of their heads, coming to rest upon the dark crown of the King in the North.

At least someone had something to do, she thought sourly.

He was at the back of the group, lugging the back half of a wide board under his arm. Dany watched the others stop, turn back in question, then move forward again at their King’s instruction.

They hauled their wares past the great stair and around another dip in the cliffside. Dany leaned out and over the railing to squint toward their destination. The men stopped about halfway around the ledge, dropped their loads and leaned the lumber against the stone walls, then turned and headed back for the castle.

Daenerys narrowed her eyes as the group passed, once more, below her.

The other men seemed cheerful enough, muttering to each other, looking about the open beaches, pointing off in the distance where Rhaegal swooped an impressive turn down to an adjoining island. Jon Snow followed close behind, silent, solemn.

She watched him lift an arm, wipe the sweat from his brow, take a swig from his canteen.

One of the men turned, walking backwards, and called out a light-hearted query to his commander. The other men laughed, shook their heads, called back at the troublemaker.

Jon Snow answered unsmilingly in the negative.

The men glanced at him, bowed their heads in respect, and trudged on.

Daenerys pulled herself away from the balcony and clipped down the stairs.

“Kovarro,” she greeted her bloodrider where he stood guard on the first gallery. “Take me to Jon Snow’s latest tunnel,” she said in his language.

If Kovarro found this command strange, he did not show it. But then, Dany supposed, he had been with her so long and seen her through much stranger things.

He walked beside her, the other Dothraki close behind, along the cliffside, following the footsteps the Northmen had left in the sand.

They halted at a dark opening in the granite, Jon Snow turning in surprise at their approach.

“Your Grace,” he greeted her, mostly hiding his wariness, eyes flicking to the men beside her.

Dany waited a beat to see if he would continue, but he settled back on his heels, regarding her.

“How goes the... project, my lord?” Daenerys asked, only slightly thrown off.

Jon squinted at her. “As I told Lord Tyrion,” he said, “we are moving on to the other side of the island in search of the stone.”

“Yes,” she responded, “there was nothing to be found on this side?”

He shrugged. “Tunnels, very deep tunnels,” he said, “but no dragonglass.”

“Yes,” Dany said again, fighting down her irritation, “and nothing _else_ of any interest to be found?”

Jon blinked, brow furrowing. “Well, I don’t know,” he said, realization dawning in his voice, “I suppose _you_ might find it interesting.”

“What?” Daenerys asked, jumping eagerly at the promise for a diversion.

“Drawings, and some- things left behind,” Jon said, “by the Targaryens.”

Dany felt her eyes grow wide, the air leaving her stomach. “Really?” she asked.

Jon gave her an odd look. “Well- yes,” he said, “I don’t see who else would have done it.”

“Can you take me?” Daenerys asked before she’d even thought the words in her head.

“Oh,” Jon said, shifting awkwardly, “well, I-” he looked up and met her eyes then, seemed suddenly to remember that this was not a request he could refuse, “-certainly, Your Grace,” he finished.

He gave some quick instructions to the remainder of his crew while Dany waited impatiently. He disappeared for a few moments inside the stone cave, returning with a bundle of sticks in his hands.

“Here,” he said, and tried to separate the unlit torches between her bloodriders behind her.

“The Dothraki do not go underground,” Daenerys told him. “They already crossed the Narrow Sea for me, I will not ask them to follow me under a thousand pounds of rock on a treasure hunt.”

Jon looked between her and the mouth of the cave behind him.

“My men need to keep working until the light is gone,” he said. “I’d rather not ask them to set down their tasks to accompany us.”

“That’s fine,” Dany brushed his words aside, held out her hand for a torch.

Was that- a flicker of- _petulance_ she saw cross his face? It was gone in a moment, Jon choosing a mid-sized base for her and a larger one for himself, but Dany felt sure there were more opinions and thoughts simmering below the stone-faced exterior he presented.

Jon gave the men a final nod, their eyes sliding away when Dany turned to regard them. They gathered up their tools in bags and trunks, slung them over their shoulders or between themselves, and headed across the island again.

Daenerys muttered a quick farewell to her Dothraki, then turned and followed Jon Snow into the mouth of the tunnel.

They stopped at a glowing brass pier to dip their torches in the licking flames. Dany raised hers out of the fire and held it up, peering with satisfaction on the healthy yellow flicker. She turned and saw Jon Snow looking at her, his own torch already lit. Dany turned to face him and raised her eyebrow when he didn’t move or speak or respond in any way.

He blinked, flicked his head back- an unconscious movement? Dany wondered- raised his torch, and turned away from her.

“This way,” he said gruffly to the hallway sprawled out in front of them.

Daenerys hurried to catch his heels, raising her own torch to better view the back of his head. He lifted a hand and rubbed irritably at his neck. Dany felt her eyebrows slide halfway up her forehead.

Was that- a _flush_ crawling down from his nape beneath his surcoat? She glanced up at his dark curls, then leaned in as close as she dared-

Yes, Dany leaned back, allowing space to grow to between them again, she had caught the King in the North staring at her, and now he was blushing about it. The thought tickled down her back, loosening the frustration that had coiled up her spine, and curled giddily in her stomach. She felt an almost childish glee rising up through her chest, and had to school her features to a placid expression.

Daenerys knew enough of men to understand her hamstrung power over them when it came to her appearance. She’d grown to think of it in a rather impersonal way: she was fair enough to draw their eyes with pleasure, exotic enough to settle inescapably in their thoughts, young enough to wake the heat in their blood and put them in mind of what all men’s minds turn to eventually-

But somehow, she’d never expected this response from the stoic King in the North, and the sudden realization that he was, after all, just a man like any other burned in Dany’s thoughts, scattering any other hopes or cravings for remnants of her long-lost family, burned away all her previous irritation, lit like a long wick through her veins, rose like white wine in her blood, warm and bubbly. She had to forcibly remind herself not to skip along behind him.

Well, she had set out in search of some diversion, hadn’t she? She couldn’t have dared hope to stumble across an opportunity for nearly so much entertainment.

She swallowed her smile down her throat and followed him around the next corner.

The hallway opened to a larger space, still low-ceilinged and damp, but room enough to move around, four corners flickering in the shadows thrown by their torches. Daenerys looked around eagerly, but didn’t see anything of interest.

“A front room,” Jon Snow explained. “A parlor of sorts, or a storage closet.”

Dany regarded him curiously, but he set off across the room without looking back.

They came upon another hallway on the opposite side of the room. They turned a corner into this corridor, then another corner, and another. The King in the North stepped past an opening branching into another hallway without comment, and they walked through another small room, about the same size as the first, in silence.

Daenerys hoped that Tyrion was right and that Jon Snow was as honorable as he said, because she’d placed herself completely in his power- no guards, no weapons, no dragons, and no idea how to find her way back.

In truth, she wasn’t concerned in the slightest.

They turned another corner, and finally, he stopped. Dany watched as he lifted his torch and indicated a stretch of wall across from them.

She stepped closer to see what he was pointing at. Bumpy lines drew her gaze, and she shifted her torch to her other hand to throw the wall in sharp relief.

Dragons, Dany smiled. Shaky, childish, and faded, but there was nothing else the drawings could be but dragons.

She traced the tip of her finger over them. There were five, one twice as large as the others with wings three times the breadth.

“Balerion,” she said.

Jon Snow stepped cautiously beside her.

“How do you know?” he asked, eyes travelling over the five beasts depicted on the stone wall.

Dany glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

“I’m a passionate student of history,” she informed him.

Jon crooked an eyebrow at her.

“Targaryen history, anyway,” she amended. She stepped closer to him, ignoring the way his shoulders tightened at her proximity. “My ancestor Aenar brought his family and their five dragons to Dragonstone just before the Doom of Valyria.” She passed her hand over each drawing, counted them- one, two, three, four, five. “Balerion was the only one to survive more than two generations in the new world.”

Jon peered down at the drawings. Dany turned and watched the shadows dance along the straight line of his nose.

“Why do you think that was?” he asked.

“Dragons are complicated beings, just like us,” Dany hummed. “They feel grief, anger, frustration, joy, satisfaction, vengeance, humor. I imagine the change from Valyria, the separation from their friends and their home, wore down on them in the end.”

He looked at her curiously. “How do you know this?”

She shrugged. “I can’t explain it, really,” she told him. “Drogon and I- we share certain things. Feelings, but not exactly. Thoughts, but not quite. It’s less so with Viserion and Rhaegal, but I hear them too- echoes, imprints, less clearly than between me and Drogon.”

Jon listened eagerly to this not-quite-explanation, eyes bright. “Do you think they ever feel jealous?” he asked. “Of their mother’s connection with their brother?”

Dany tilted her head, a rueful smile curling her lips. “Oh, probably,” she admitted. “Fortunately, they love me far too much to let envy get in the way. Besides, what does a dragon need to be jealous for? They’re _dragons,”_ she said.

“But- you said-” Jon furrowed his brow, “-they feel human emotions, just like us-”

“I said no such thing,” Daenerys protested. “I said they’re complicated, like us, and many of their thoughts and feelings can be translated into something resembling our own, but they are not the same. Does a dragon enslave others to do its bidding day after day, year after year? Does a dragon betray its loved one for the sliver of a hope of a better life? Does one dragon rape another to fulfill its own lust, its need for power over another?” She turned back to the drawings, needing them, touching them. “No,” she said, “such a thing would never occur to a dragon.”

Jon was silent. She thought she saw him sway on his feet in her peripheral vision.

Dany scowled at herself. She shouldn’t have said that, should she? It was an odd thing for her to say-

No, a voice within her screamed, she’d chosen to start calling it that because that’s what it was, and she refused to let it have any more power over her, make her weak-

“So, Jon Snow,” she said, “what do you think about that?”

He looked at her, then, really looked at her, and Dany suddenly realized he’d never looked at her so closely before- in the throne room, yes, and in her small council chambers, but it was the Dragon Queen he’d looked at then, and now he looked at Daenerys.

She turned back to her ancestor’s drawings, tracing them with her fingers. She felt unaccountably nervous.

“I think,” he said, breathing down a slight tremor, “I think- when someone first told me that dragons were alive again in the world, I considered it a miracle- distant from me, unknowable, one of those wonders one hears about that must always remain a mystery. But now,” he leaned in against the wall, “after meeting their mother-” she looked up at him, “-it makes sense to me. Still a miracle, might be, but it makes sense.”

Daenerys thought about this, smiled inwardly. Somehow, though she would have never thought the words on her own, she felt assured that this was the best possible answer he could have given her.

“Would you like to hear a secret?” she asked suddenly.

Jon blinked, stood up straight again.

“I-” he started.

“Dragons are susceptible to flattery, too,” she confessed in a stage whisper.

His lip quirked. “Really?” he asked.

“Oh yes,” she told him. “Never discount the value of a well-meant compliment.” She stepped along the wall toward the opposite door, passing herself directly in his space. He shuffled back quickly. “I don’t mean to say that dragons don’t have their own struggles with pride and anger, many of their personal conflicts are quite like ours- except sex,” Dany said suddenly, tilting her head as though she had just thought of it. “A dragon has no gender, did you know that?”

The King in the North furrowed his brow, nodded quickly in the affirmative.

“I suppose most history accounts have noted it,” Dany continued, “but still, to truly consider- as their mother, I’ve had to think of it- dragonriders have named their children for centuries, male and female, and imprinted upon them their own conclusions and assumptions. My dragons are all male to me, that’s just the way it turned out (though at times I’ve pondered why), but my calling them that does not make it so. I wonder! To have no sexuality, no concept of the drive-” she turned her eyes to Jon Snow’s, “-it seems almost freeing at times. No need to dance around an ill-placed desire, no aggravating distractions between two people with larger purposes,” she widened her eyes innocently, “no troublesome inability to focus. But then,” she shook her head, her heartbeat quickening pleasantly, “never to experience the act, with all its...” she trailed off suggestively. “Well, I can hardly decide if it would be liberating or dreadful!”

She felt her curls bounce as she capered past him to the door.

Dany looked back over her shoulder. Jon stood rooted to the floor, shadows licking at his overcoat.

“What’s in here?” she asked guilelessly.

He turned to her stiffly. “Why don’t you see?” he pointed her ahead.

Dany ducked into the next room, peering about the walls. Jon stalked behind her, crossed to the center of the cavern, reached up to steady something hanging from the ceiling, lifted his torch to touch the flames to it-

The room sprang to life, an odd glass lantern reflecting the flickering light in waves upon the walls. She turned, eyes wide.

Drawings crawled on every side, stick figures, blobs, nothing too impressive to really note but for the sheer amount of them. In the corner was a block of stone raised from the ground, with another smaller one beside it. On the opposite side of the room stood a crumbled heap of dust and broken granite. Dany’s eyes travelled around the room, coming to rest on the drawings set upon the slab to her left.

She smiled at the center of the wall and carefully set her torch down in a notch in the granite.

“Look,” she said, her skirt rustling as she moved along it, trailing her fingers over the peaks, towers, valleys and domes outlined in reds and purples.

Jon stepped to the other side.

“What-” he started.

“Valyria,” she told him.

He looked at her, startled, then lifted his torch and leaned in closer. He brought his free hand up to point out a tiny winged dragon circling the sun.

“The greatest civilization in the history of mankind,” she said proudly.

Jon glanced at her. “How’d you know that?” he asked skeptically.

It was Daenerys’ turn to be surprised. “What do you mean?” she returned. “Everyone says so-”

“Everyone said there was nothing past the Wall but Wildlings,” Jon said. “Everyone said that dragons were gone for good. Seems to me, you weren’t there, so how could you know if the Valyrians were as advanced as everyone says?”

Dany stared at him, incensed. “There are texts, Jon Snow,” she said snippily. “Statements written down by historical scholars-”

“Yes, but they weren’t there either,” Jon argued. “That’s the whole point, isn’t it? The Doom took Valyria before anything could be saved, so any historical accounts of the city or the people who lived there were written after they were all gone.”

Dany glared at him. “Targaryens, then,” she lifted her chin. “If you need more proof that the Valyrians were a race apart, look at how the only survivors, a minor family, conquered your entire country for three centuries after the Doom.”

Jon raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, only looked at her.

Daenerys felt an odd prickle, one she hadn’t felt in quite some time, that perhaps what she had just said was beneath her.

She dropped her gaze, looked back at the cavern wall, flicked off the hot shame crawling up her skin. “How could it not be?” she asked softly, eyes focusing on the rounded roof of a tall purple tower under a bright sun.

She heard Jon sigh, shift on his feet. “Did you ever see it?” he asked. “The ruins, in your travels around Essos?”

“No,” Dany said. “Tyrion did, on his way to meet me, while with Ser Jor- one of my sworn shields. He called it a sad place, dark and lost.”

Jon hummed in his throat. “Well, I haven’t seen much of the world,” he said, “but I’ve seen a fair few places like that.”

Daenerys looked at him again, the outline of an idea taking shape in her mind. She couldn’t have said why she followed it, just that the pull was too strong, the opportunity too enticing to let slip by.

“Valyria was- _arguably-”_ she tilted her head at him, “the greatest civilization on the planet, but it fell to ruins in one disaster, perhaps overnight. It sounds to me that your Kingdom stands on the brink of a similar fate.”

Jon’s eyes passed warily between hers, before he nodded in assent.

“Think of it, Jon,” she hummed softly, stepped up close to him, placed her hand on his arm. He tensed visibly, narrowing his eyes at her. Dany fought down her grin. “They were people, too,” she turned back to the drawing, innocently pressing her front against him. “They were families, scholars, inventors, children, parents, lovers.” She slid her palm down his bicep, down his forearm, past his wrist, curled her fingers around the back of his hand and lifted it, guided his fingers to splay flat on the wall over the centuries-old drawings left behind by one of her ancestors.

“A Targaryen warned them of the coming destruction, but they didn’t listen,” she continued, pressing her own hand flat against his. “They were too strong, they thought, they could overcome any challenge on their own, without help.” She turned her face to his, felt her breath wash back over her off his cheek. “Their pride led to their downfall.” His arm was warm, a comforting bar against her breasts. She shifted closer, the heat of his presence washing pleasantly through her stomach.

“Would you let the same happen to your Northern kingdom?” Dany asked him, curls sliding down her arm to tickle his wrist. He stared straight ahead, jaw tight. She watched his throat tense and loosen, entranced in spite of herself. She realized faintly that her other hand had come up to rest against his back. “When you have seen your challenger head on? When all you have to do, to receive the help you need,” she leaned in as close as she dared, “is bend the knee?”

He was silent, tense, and Dany would have felt sorry for him if she wasn’t so distracted by the shadows flickering over his mouth.

Finally, he blinked, glanced down at her.

“I know what you’re doing,” he said.

Daenerys leaned back a hair’s breadth, eyes flicking back up to his own. “You do?” she raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,” he said. “You’re not the first woman to use such tactics against me.”

Dany laughed, surprised by how delighted she was at his straightforward answer. “No,” she said, eyes sliding down his nose to rest again on his lips, “I should think not.”

He was quiet another moment, and she thought she heard his breath stutter. He swallowed.

“I have great respect for one’s right to use any tools at their disposal against their enemies,” Jon said, looking down at her, his torch held carefully away from them. “But as I said, I am not your enemy, so this hardly seems fair.”

Dany smirked, sliding her hand across his back. “You’re not my enemy, so what are you?” she asked. “My-” she tilted her head, “-friend?”

He furrowed his brow, his eyes close enough for Dany to see a few flecks of green she hadn’t noticed before-

“I had hoped that might be possible,” he answered.

“Hmm,” Dany said and closed her eyes, pretending to ponder this offer. In fact, the absence of visual stimuli just made his presence, strong and warm, more noticeable against her body. She felt her pulse splashing pleasantly throughout her skin and allowed herself to settle more firmly against him.

Her eyes fluttered open to find him staring down at her, pupils dark.

“Jon Snow,” she said softly, “do you want me...” his eyes widened, “...to stop?”

He blinked. His chest rose and fell.

“That would greatly improve my ability to focus, yes,” he said.

She smiled, released her hold on him, stepped back with just a touch of reluctance.

“I am sorry, my lord,” Daenerys said magnanimously, lifting her hands in apology, “such ignoble tactics are beneath me. You have my word- I shall never use them against you in such a way again.”

Jon squinted at her for a moment, then drew himself up and turned away.

“Don’t think I asked for that,” she thought he muttered before he stalked across the room.

Dany huffed a laugh under her breath and followed him.

They stopped at a clutter of debris heaped against the opposite wall. Dany knelt to peer closer, and Jon raised the light over her head so she could see it better.

It was- too old and fragile for her to pick up and study. An old piece of vellum or some leather-like material crumbled to dust in her hands. A stack of oddly shaped ceramic or fossilized wood blocks cracked into pieces when she made to move them closer. A mewl of dismay escaped her.

Jon crouched beside her, scanning his eyes over the dusty remnants.

“A chest of toys, I’d say,” he remarked. “With the trunk all dissolved to dirt, and only the hardiest pieces remaining.”

Daenerys leaned back on her heels, eyes locked on the ruined debris, hands on her knees. A child had lived here- a Targaryen, like her- had drawn those memories on the walls-

A glint caught her eye. She leaned closer, waved Jon in to wash away the shadows with his torch. She brushed a heap of dirt aside, slid her fingers in the grime-

Dany leaned back, a silver chain coiled about her knuckles. She held it up to the light in wonder.

“A bracelet,” she said, reverence coloring her voice.

There were baubles dangling from the links, but time had weathered away their distinctions. She rubbed her thumb over one, then another, wiping away the dirt, but still their shapes were too blunt to make out, undefined. The silver, though, was strong, and gleamed in Jon’s torchlight when she cleaned the grime from the chain.

She raised her hand, pressed her fingers together, but the bracelet stopped halfway down, stuck against the notch of her thumb. She shook her head and flipped her hand over again, skimming the chain back down to her fingertips.

“A child’s bracelet,” she clarified, dangling it in the light. One of Aenar’s children- a girl- a Targaryen girl-

“Perhaps you can give it to your own daughter one day,” Jon suggested.

Dany felt her shoulders tighten, the snake crawling again up her chest to wrap itself around her, suffocate her. The spell was broken, the moment soured, and Dany clenched her fist closed around the bracelet.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said awkwardly, noticing the shift of her mood. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

She felt her spine grow, if possible, even more rigid, her stomach tight and uneasy. Did he know- but how could he? “Why not?” she turned on him.

“I just-” he stuttered, shrugged. “It’s not proper to speak of such things to an unmarried lady,” he said.

Dany stared at him, confused beyond measure at this response. “What?” she snapped irritably.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, drawing back, uncomfortable. “I didn’t mean to offend you-”

“If I’m offended, it’s that you’re treating me like a child,” Daenerys huffed, picking herself up off the ground and crossing her arms. Jon followed more slowly, eyes trailing up to meet hers as though drawn by some irresistible pull. “As if I should blush at the mention of a daughter, as if I’m not a woman who’s grown a son inside me and given birth, like I’ve never had a man between my legs before.”

He was tense again, shifting on his feet, eyes flicking awkwardly about the room. He seemed to have completely lost his earlier ability to find the right words.

A sudden thought crossed Dany’s mind, and she stilled, staring at him.

“I’m sorry-” he tried for the third time-

“Are you a virgin?” she asked.

His eyes shot back to hers, and Dany thought she had never seen him look so horrified. “That-” he said, voice strangled, “-is hardly _any_ of your concern.”

She squinted at him, chewed her lip.

“But you’re not, right?” she clarified.

“No!” he huffed, clenched his fist.

Dany sighed, relieved. It wasn’t as though she would have held it against him if he was, but she would have wondered at her own misjudgement in that case. It simply hadn’t occurred to her- it didn’t seem possible- surely the women of the North would not have let that happen-

A hysterical giggle bubbled up her throat, and then another. She clapped her hand over her mouth, met his dark look, then surrendered to her glee and the dissolution of her earlier tension.

“It does not escape me,” Jon said dryly, “that you are laughing, and as I’m the only one here, it seems you are laughing at me.”

“I’m sorry,” it was her turn to say, choking down her giggles. “It’s just- you were so afraid to offend me- and then- I asked you-” she dissolved into laughter again, closing her eyes at the recollection. “I’ve never seen a man so shocked-”

“Yes, well,” Jon groused, “customs are different in the North, which you should know if you intend to rule it someday.”

She blinked up at him, swallowed down her mirth. “You’re right, of course,” she agreed, wide-eyed, “I wouldn’t want to offend a Northman with my ignorance- just his King was enough entertainment for me.” She smirked and bounded across the room to retrieve her own torch from the wall.

“I think I’ve seen enough for one evening,” she informed him, tucking the bracelet in her jacket. “I can always come back in the morning.”

He seemed greatly relieved at this notion, and crossed to the center of the room under the flickering lamp. He slid a lever carefully back and forth, and the flame died, quenched again in damp darkness.

They walked through the many hallways, Jon pointing out his numbered system for keeping the turns and corridors organized in his mind. Daenerys nodded, assigning each direction to her memory.

They passed the brass pier, its healthy flames now smouldering embers, and ducked out of the cave, blinking in the dusky air. Dany greeted her Dothraki, handed over her torch.

“Thank you, Jon,” she said before he could head off across the beach to find his men. “The adventure was just what I needed,” she confessed, “and quite illuminating, I might say.”

Jon considered this a moment, before his shoulders loosened, and he nodded.

He met her eyes and smiled.

Dany-

Dany blinked-

-stunned.

Had she seen him smile before? she wondered. She couldn’t have- not like this- she would have remembered-

It was like turning the page in a children’s book, when the hero is under siege, at his wit’s end, all hope lost, and then- the page turns, and a savior swoops down from the heavens to pluck him from danger, to reward him for his struggles, the light breaking through dark storm clouds. It was like a hot bath to forget one’s loneliness, like a red comet streaking through the sky, like watching a dragon glint against the sun, and Dany was rooted to the ground by its power, breathless.

“Aye,” he agreed, “it was.”

Dany swallowed, shaken. She watched his back grow smaller as he trudged through the sand away from her.

It occurred to her then that she’d set out, for her own satisfaction, to prove that Jon Snow was attracted to her, and she was reasonably certain that she had.

She hadn’t expected to brush the weeds away and find her own attraction grown so robust, so utterly wild and impudent, untameable.

Now that she’d opened the box, let it out of its hiding place, she realized she hadn't the slightest notion how she was going to smuggle it back down again.


	3. Suffering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon, beset by a morbid turn of mind, looks for some peace- and a reason to keep fighting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to every last one of you for reading, and special special thanks to my lovely commenters. Shout-out to EyesLikeLiquidFire who made a suggestion that actually gave me a way 'in' to this chapter, even if I didn't exactly explore the topics suggested. When I speak of my 'muse,' I am quite in earnest: I don't quite know how to wrangle it to a specific purpose! But the comment helped me decide upon the setting and theme of this piece, so my sincere thanks to you. :-)
> 
> Please leave me a note if you enjoy!

The sky was darkening.

The little crow circled a white-tipped copse of trees, searching for his flock, growing nervous.

Where were his brothers? They wouldn’t have left him behind, would-

The winds swirled, jostled him up and over before he could catch himself and dive free of the twisting snow. He was battered first this way, then that, his feathers ruffled terribly in all directions.

He swooped out of the cyclone and landed a third of the way down a tall pine tree. He hopped along the branch a few times, shook out his feathers irritably.

It was just like his brothers, the crow thought, to decide at the crest of a lightning strike to leave, to put out the call only once, and then to fly away without a second thought for him.

It was just like him, the crow acknowledged begrudgingly, to ignore the call, and the lightning strike, and the darkening sky in favor of a gleeful crosswind, a bright winter sun, the white landscape gleaming below.

The wind howled through the mountain pass, low and eery.

The crow shivered.

He shouldn’t stay here, should he? The storm was only just beginning- surely, if he pressed himself against the lowering sun, he could avoid it, find a safe place to rest for the night-

A shout rose up from beneath him.

He turned his head curiously, peered down the crisscrossing branches, but the swirling snow and graying light made it impossible to see much beyond his own refuge.

The crow looked back up at the western glow of the setting sun and considered. He really should be leaving, the rest of the flock were long gone by now, and if he hoped to catch up to them-

Clanging steel, the crow heard then, and another yell, and the strangest, oddest clumping sound, like saplings falling in the snow, or ravens snapping water out of their wings-

The little crow dived off for a better look.

He maneuvered himself through the close-set tree branches until he saw an opening in the woods ahead- a white clearing-

The crow emerged into a cloud of snow bustling in all directions. He couldn’t see more than two feet past his wings. A frustrated caw escaped him.

Under the snapping winds, the crow could hear the sound of steel continuing, slowing, perhaps, and under that, the strange clumping sound he couldn’t quite place-

All of a sudden, the winds died down, bits of fluffy white snow falling peacefully beside him, rather than whipping every which way and blowing in his eyes. The crow straightened his wings, relieved, and circled down to get a better look at the clearing below.

He stopped mid-circle, his heart clanging dreadfully in its little cage against his breast.

A man stood in the center of the clearing, his hair dark, his face tired. His sword flashed like a silver fish jumping free of its black other-world, gleaming, ephemeral. The man twisted, alone, to face an attacker, drawn by some instinct that it was there. He slammed his sword across the creature’s body and back again behind him into another’s neck even before the first’s terrible shriek had finished.

The dead things kept marching for him.

They staggered from the woods, clogging up the pathways between the trees like foul sticky oil seeping down into the cracks of the earth. They were eerily quiet, the man’s breaths and grunts carried up on a light wind to the crow’s ears. Their steps clumped through the snow- flump, flump, clump, bump. The crow flapped his wings and watched in horror as the dead things grew and grew and grew in number, oozing from the line of trees, endlessly endlessly.

The man swung his sword again, again.

The crow had seen these creatures before, but he didn’t know that there were so many of them. He felt badly for the man below- these creatures wanted nothing but death, and he was surrounded by them, surrounded by death, their death, his own approaching swiftly.

The crow realized he needed to leave, save himself, escape. He pulled up and ascended the cold air, watched the man continue to fight, the length of his sword marking the inches remaining of his life.

Thunder crashed like worlds breaking, the little crow’s heart skittering with fear. Like the snap of a flame jumping from nothingness, the winds picked back up and battered the crow in cold ruthless fingers.

He lived a few moments in a white frozen world, unable to tell which way was the ground, which way the sun, aware only of the sound of his heart rattling against his breast.

The crow tried to spread his wings, terrified, but the storm was too strong, he feared his little bones would snap into pieces. He closed his eyes, tucked his wings against his body, and dived down down down.

The snow pulled apart enough for the crow to see dark grey heads of dead creatures only feet below him. He broke out of his dive and spread his wings, his little form stirring the dead strands of hair on their slimy skulls.

_ Oh no, oh no, oh no,  _ the little crow thought. He really should have left when his brothers sounded the call. He really should have left when the first cold brush of the oncoming storm ruffled his feathers. Pride, the crow thought, hubris, the brass assumption that just because death hadn’t happened before, it wouldn’t happen in the future-

He pushed his wings harder, trying to bring himself up further above these terrible beings, safely out of reach, but the storm railed down on him, jostled him about, pushed him down with the inexorable power of a force much greater, much stronger than one’s own-

The crow looked ahead and saw the man again, only yards away. Still he fought, the pile of already-broken broken creatures mounting around him. Dark blood seeped down from his temple, his heavy fur coat made heavier with sticky red wetness seeping up from his chest. The man yelled, a horrible sound gushing up from his being, and jammed his sword in a dead thing’s head, another scratching at his back.

The man was sobbing, the crow was close enough to see. Tears rained down like stars in a crystal clear sky and froze on his cheeks, in his beard. The man stumbled, bent his head, and moaned when the dead thing on his back stuck an ugly short stick in his side.

_ Oh no, oh no- _ The crow watched the split second when the man stopped, the crow’s heart stopping too. The man looked down at the ground, and the ring of dead things around him tightened like a cold shackle.

He reared back, then, ripped the creature’s claws from his neck, screamed in pain and spun his sword.

He looked up and met the crow’s eyes with his own, dark, wild, afraid.

The man didn’t want to die, the crow realized. 

Part of him did, of course, all intelligent beings contain within them a secret yearning for the end of thought, of fear, and crows were no different, being rather intelligent themselves.

Part of him did, but more of him didn’t, the crow finding the same truth reflected within himself, the more of him being that part which the mind typically disregards in its own pride- the body, the soul, rising up like a great snarling beast to wipe away all thought, all plans, all consciousness, at the very end of it all, pushing the mind aside to just be- to just live.

Intelligent beings may think they are ready to die, but when they reach the black precipice, only one thought remains:  _ not yet. _

The man sobbed, clutched his side, swung his sword. The dead things climbed over their fallen comrades and clawed at him.

The crow spread his wings wildly, desperately, pushed up with all his might into the great white sky above-

Thunder rolled again, the wind crashed against him like a boulder-

_ Not yet not yet not yet, _ the crow thought-

He heard a snap, then, his wing breaking behind him, and tumbled down to the quiet mass of death below.

The man screamed.

Jon woke with the dreadful certainty that he was going to vomit.

He shoved back the covers and scrambled for his wash room, retching in a water bucket.

It had been months since he’d been foolish enough to eat a large meal late in the day, so not much came up, but what did was slimy and burned his throat, leaving a foul filminess on his tongue.

He stood up again and wiped his mouth with the back of wrist. He stalked back out to his bedroom, grabbed the water pitcher and poured himself a cup.

Jon knocked the water back and walked to his window. It was still dark, the barest hint of lightness at the horizon, the sun not even scraping its way above the sea’s surface yet. He pressed his fingers against his temples, closed his eyes, rubbed his hands over his face.

The dreams had lessened significantly after their return to Winterfell, and slightly again upon his arrival to Dragonstone, but he wasn’t foolhardy enough to believe they were gone for good. The dreams were- well, they were just one of those things. Just another item on the long list of things that Jon had no power over, that he simply had to accept- somehow- to push down inside and ignore and move on from.

He remembered the black fear in the crow’s eyes- or were they his own?- and felt his shoulders tighten unbearably, a rope around his neck.

Jon pushed away from the window and started to dress.

Sleep was another one of those things he couldn’t control anymore; all he could do was move on.

He decided to forego his furs, and stalked down to the second landing in his surcoat, sliding his fingers into his gloves. It smelled of rain approaching, but Jon found that a common state of the air at Dragonstone, and though it did rain quite often, chances were good it was simply a night squall drifting in from the roaring seas to tingle in his nose.

He stood at the railing and allowed himself to breathe. Something in the salt, the black waters lapping at the island, calmed the storm within him, loosened his shoulders, settled peacefully in his ribs. He’d noticed this reaction within himself to the wild sea air at Dragonstone on his very first evening there.

He’d made his apologies to Ser Davos and stalked from his new chambers out onto the cliffs. His frustration, the morbid irony of his situation as a man come back from the dead attempting to make strangers believe him that a dead army was coming to kill them all, curled and coiled in his stomach, burned like a wet log hissing and smoking up his throat.

It had smelled like rain then, too, and three dragons called to each other across the setting sun, and the wind was strong, as always, but a hint of warmth sighed upon Jon’s cheek, and he found himself breathing, his heart slowing, his eyes following the silhouette of a winged beast as he dipped toward the gleaming seas.

Dragonstone answered something inside Jon- a question he hadn’t even thought to ask, a discovered puzzle piece he hadn’t realized was missing.

He liked the island better than any other place he’d been, Jon admitted now- except Winterfell, of course, and it wasn’t only loyalty that made him cling to his boyhood home.

But he liked the cliffs, the wild green that somehow flourished on so much granite, the sandy beaches, the salty air, the cresting tide, the storms that rose up and battered against the castle seemingly just to remind them that no matter how powerful one rose in the game of warlords and human maneuverings, they were nothing against the eternal ebb and flow of nature.

He liked to watch the dragons play, unbound to just one realm, but members of all three: sky, land, even water now and then, when an interesting shadow would catch the eye and they would pull up and into a dive more graceful than Jon would have thought possible for a creature of such size.

They were just waking now, the two smaller beasts up first, sniffing at the lapping waters, while their mother’s favorite turned his head and burrowed deeper into his wing.

The green- Viserion- snapped threateningly at his white-gold brother- Rhaegal- when he approached his shoulder from behind. Rhaegal shook himself almost haughtily, Jon rather thought, and spread his wings to mount the air, slapping at Viserion’s snout before he escaped to an adjoining cliffside.

Someone chuckled behind him.

Jon turned to see the Queen’s recently returned knight climbing the stair from the first landing at his left.

“They’ve always been like that,” Ser Jorah said, ascending to Jon’s level, stopping when he stood on the opposite side of the railing, looking out at the horizon. “Quick to anger, but quick to forgive, too. Not ones to hold a grudge, especially not against each other.”

Jon glanced at him in the cold dawn. “You were there,” he commented, “when the dragons were born,” he wasn’t sure what his question was.

“I was,” Ser Jorah agreed. “Not every man can say he witnessed a miracle in his lifetime.” He set his hand on the railing. “One would have to be a fool made of stone to walk away unchanged.”

“You were there,” Jon continued, still unsure what he wanted to know, “when the khal died.”

Ser Jorah looked at him. “Yes,” he said, “a shallow cut that grew infected in the desert.” He shook his head. “The Dothraki do not elevate healers as perhaps they should-”

“And when,” Jon said, “when-”

“When the khaleesi set her dragon eggs on the pyre and walked into the flames,” Jorah remembered. “She told me not to be afraid, but I was, I was.”

“And when,” Jon tried again, growing frustrated at himself, “the witch- tricked her, killed-” he stopped.

Jorah squinted at him and leaned his hip against the stone. “Killed her son,” he said, a question in his voice.

“Yes,” Jon said, relieved in spite of himself.

Jorah sighed and turned back to the sea. “In truth, I do not understand what happened that day,” he confessed. “The Queen believes the witch killed her babe with dark magic, but she has no memory of the birth. That, at least, was one blessing the gods saw fit to give her,” he clenched his jaw. “But I remember,” his voice lowered, “I remember.”

“What-” still Jon wasn’t sure what he wanted to know, or if he wanted to know any of it.

“She wasn’t there,” Jorah tried to explain, “her mind was far away, I could see no trace of her in her eyes- but her body- such agony- She screamed, and in the next tent, I could hear the witch singing her foreign magic spells, and I was so afraid, more than I’d been for any battle, more than I was before the siege on Pyke. The women made me hold her down for fear she would hurt herself with her convulsions, and when the baby came-” he shook his head. “He was a little wrinkled thing, purple and gray- I think he breathed once- but it could have been a trick-”

He hadn’t wanted to know, Jon decided then.

He stared angrily down the cliffside where the black tide grew churlish.

He thought of the crow again, the one from his dream, the one who lived in his mind, who realized only moments before his end that he wasn’t ready-

Jon blinked, stunned by the force of his outrage, drenching him like an unexpected wave.

Why? a voice within him screamed. Why must there be so much suffering, not just for him, but for her, for Jorah, for his father, for Robb, for- everyone-

It was such a waste, he thought bitterly, and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it- not truly-

Here was another one of those things he couldn’t do anything about, except push it down down, suffocate it, strangle it, walk away-

But it was getting harder and harder for him to extract himself from the slimy dark tendrils, to remember why it was so important that he keep walking.

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

“Could have used one of those maesters from the Citadel that day,” Jorah said ruefully.

The unexpected comment darted through the thick cloud of Jon’s mind and pricked at his ears.

“The Citadel?” Jon repeated. “Have you been there?”

“Aye, my lord,” Jorah nodded, “just returned.”

Jon stared at him. “Why were you there?” he asked.

“It was the only place I could think of where I might find someone who could help me,” Jorah answered. “The greyscale had spread across my chest and was inching for my throat by the time I arrived.”

“Greyscale?” Jon repeated, thoroughly confused. “I thought it was incurable-”

“It is,” the knight assured him. “But I thought, if I was headed for death either way, I might as well try something drastic,” he shrugged.

“I sent my friend from the Wall to the Citadel,” Jon said before he’d thought about it. “Samwell Tarly- I wonder if-” he stopped at the look on his face.

_ “You _ sent Tarly to the Citadel,” Ser Jorah repeated.

“Yes,” Jon answered, a bit taken aback at this response. “The Night’s Watch had just lost it’s maester- I sent him to train-”

“You sent Tarly to the Citadel to train as a maester,” Jorah said, a note of wonder in his voice. Then he laughed and shook his head.

“What?” Jon said, growing impatient. “Did you see him?”

“Your friend was the only one who would help me,” Jorah told him. “The others would have been happy to shut me away until I died. But Samwell Tarly- he got it into his head to try an experiment he had read about- a young conscript who had never tried such a procedure before- but what did I have to lose?” he laughed again. “Your friend saved my life- which means you, also, had a hand in that.” He paused, peering at Jon. “Life can be... such an odd thing.”

Jon looked back at him, an unlooked-for bubble of light breaking through inside him. Sam was alive, at least, he thought, and doing well- performing miracles of his own-

Jon smiled. “How was he?” he asked eagerly.

Ser Jorah shrugged. “I admit we didn’t speak much except of the disease,” he said. “He seemed well enough- healthy,” his eyes flicked to Jon’s, who nodded in rueful acknowledgement. “Although he may have signed his own walking papers by helping me, I’m not sure.”

“Why did he help you?” Jon asked curiously.

Jorah raised his brow. “By the end, I believe his motivation was purely to see if he could,” he said. “But he first grew interested in my case when he learned I served Daenerys Targaryen.”

Jon blinked. “Why-”

“The old maester, I suppose,” Jorah said. “The only other Targaryen still alive in the world, and Samwell Tarly served him til death. I think he felt some obligation to help her, if he could, by helping me.”

Jon rocked back on his heels. Of course he’d made the connection before, but why hadn’t it occurred to him that it might be of some importance- that a girl who’d never known her family, who’d followed him underground at the mention of some old drawings left behind, might be interested in hearing about an unknown relation, one he himself had been close to-

“Where is the Queen?” Jon asked abruptly.

Jorah turned in surprise. “Her balcony, I would guess,” he said. “She typically takes her breakfast there.”

“Are you headed that way?” he asked.

Jorah considered this. “I could be,” he said. “I was going to call on her later- it is still early yet.”

Jon deflated, looking back at the rising sun, still half-hidden beneath the straight line of the watery horizon. “I suppose it is,” he acknowledged. “She wouldn’t likely be up-”

“I’m sure she is,” the knight returned, looking at him oddly. “Come,” he said, tilting his head, “let’s go see her.”

They paced around the second landing to a narrow stair he’d never been up before. A breeze came off the water and wrapped salty fingers around him, brushing his hair against his neck. Laughter floated down the stairs from above.

They came upon a wide landing open to the elements, poised to accept the morning sun as it rose. Blue and pink curtains drifted in the sea wind, wrapped and unwrapped themselves around stone pillars shaped like winding dragons. A spindly-looking table- really, there was no weight to it, surely one of Dragonstone’s many storms should have snatched it away by now- stood in the center of the sunlight, elegant blue and white chairs placed around it with lovely, embroidered cushions upon them-

It was an overwhelmingly feminine territory, even with the snarling stone dragons- they, too, seemed coiled with feminine grace, powerful and coy, soft as iron.

Jon felt completely out of place, even before he saw the two women sitting on a small chaise lounge pushed up against the balcony railing. Missandei leaned over the edge, looking across the sparkling bay, a smile curling her lips, while Daenerys sat close beside her, fingers twisting deftly in her hair.

She must have seen movement from the corner, for she stopped mid-sentence and turned to them in surprise.

“Ser Jorah!” she called gladly, a morning smile in her voice. “My lord,” she continued, eyes widening when she saw Jon behind him.

“Your Grace,” Jorah greeted her, approaching confidently. Jon followed more slowly, wishing suddenly that he could escape, that some crisis in the mines would call him away-

“How are you and Missandei this morning?” Jorah continued.

“Well enough, my lord,” she answered, flicking a mischievous look to her friend. “Missandei and I were just- reminiscing on some old times,” the girl shot her a look and they both smiled. “But what brings you here so early?” she asked, brow furrowing in concern. “Is something wrong?” Daenerys glanced between them, tilting her head.

Jon realized then that her hair was unbound, completely free of any tie or knot or braid. It wound its way down her arms, little tendrils sticking against her neck. In the next moment, he saw also that she was not dressed in her usual way, with her stiff jacket and the silver chain- she wasn’t dressed to meet the day, but the morning, in a blue dressing gown that fell past her collarbones but otherwise preserved her modesty- and it wasn’t as though it was the extra skin that struck Jon dumb, but the totality of her appearance, soft, unbound, clean,  _ young- _

Jon swallowed and lowered his eyes, tried to remember what she had just asked.

“No, Your Grace,” Ser Jorah replied after a half beat. “We came upon each other walking the balustrade below, and thought to see if we could be of service in some way.”

Jon glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t know why the other man didn’t come right out and tell her Jon had asked him to bring him there, but he felt a rather confusing sense of gratitude that he hadn’t.

Daenerys crooked him a wry smile. “Gallant, as always, dear knight,” she said. Jorah gave a solemn half-bow. Her eyes slid to Jon for a moment, but still he couldn’t think of what to say.

“Well, come, sit down and join us,” she gestured to the table. “We haven’t had our meal yet, and weren’t planning to for a bit, but I can call the kitchens-”

“Please, don’t,” Jon said finally, stepping forward behind Ser Jorah and settling himself a tad awkwardly in one of her spindly chairs, “don’t trouble yourself.”

She squinted at him, but accepted his plea and turned back to her work on Missandei’s hair. When she turned, her own hair drew Jon’s eyes, tumbling freely down her back. A few little snarls caught in her curls here and there, and Jon found the imperfections adorable, his heart beating a bit faster-

He looked down at the table and scowled at himself.

The air moved around them, then, the curtains fluttering inwards, a great clattering and scraping rising up from below. Jon looked up in alarm, but Daenerys laughed, pushing Missandei carefully behind her.

“Good morning, my sweet,” she said, leaning over the railing to reach out an arm-

The black dragon’s snout rose like a shadow over the side to nudge rather gracelessly against his mother. She tripped a few quick steps to the side, but caught her balance, hanging her arms about his neck. Jon sat up straight, heart racing, and even Missandei shrank back against the arm of the chaise, but Daenerys just ran a hand over his nose and whispered a few quick words in his ear.

Drogon swept a red eye over them, resting upon Jon a few extra seconds, he thought, before turning back to his mother.

“Go on,” she urged him, “you’re scaring my guests.”

He nudged her again and snuffled a bit indignantly, then disappeared once more below the railing. They listened as he clattered down the wall a few steps, before the air swept back out of the balcony, and they saw him rise above the castle, circling towards the cliffs after his brothers.

“Are they finding enough game on the islands?” Ser Jorah asked.

The Queen settled herself back on the sofa, trading her earlier spot with Missandei, picking up her unfinished twists while facing them.

“They are,” Daenerys said. “And Drogon is quite well fed after the attack on the Lannister army, I imagine he won’t be needing much sustenance for the next few weeks.”

Jon felt his eyebrows raise, and rubbed a hand against his chin to hide his discomfort.

She shot him an irritated look, his subterfuge quite unsuccessful.

“The horses,” she clarified. “I didn’t let him eat the men.” She looked back down at Missandei’s crown, securing the last few braids in place. “Not that there was much left for him to eat,” he thought she muttered.

“Even when he was barely the size of a horse himself,” Jorah said, “his fire was hot enough to consume the masters in one breath.”

Daenerys’ smile was quite satisfied at that. She smoothed her hands down the sides of Missandei’s head, tucked the last few strands behind her ears, and tilted her head back to look down into her friend’s eyes.

“That was the day Missandei knew she would never again be a slave,” Daenerys said.

Missandei smiled back up at her. “Certainly not Kraznys’ slave,” she said.

Daenerys laughed, delighted, and caught Jorah’s eye. “No,” she agreed, “Kraznys mo Nakloz would never again be a master.”

Jon looked between them curiously. A smirk played across the old knight’s mouth, but he made no further comment. Missandei straightened and pulled herself up off the sofa, ushering her mistress forward to kneel behind her. Jon watched, entranced, when she ran her hands through the Queen’s hair, dividing it carefully into even sections.

“Missandei and I were just remembering some of our old days before we settled in Meereen, Ser Jorah,” Daenerys said easily.

The knight leaned back in his chair. “Just the good ones, I hope,” he said.

“Oh, yes,” Daenerys said. “There are far too many bad ones, and they’re all alike, they get rather boring to dwell on, don’t you think?” her voice was light, almost hiding the brittleness underneath. Her eyes lit up then, and she made to turn to her friend before she remembered to keep her head forward. “I was just going to remind Missandei, before you arrived, of the time Ser Barristan gave Daario a bloody nose in Yunkai, do you remember?”

Missandei raised her brow, a small smirk twisting her lips. “Of course,” she said.

“Oh, do tell the story,” Daenerys begged her. “It always makes me laugh, and I think even Ser Jorah quite enjoys it.”

“One of my favorites,” Jorah agreed, setting his foot upon his knee.

Jon listened, intrigued.

“We had just entered the city a few days before,” Missandei started, twisting the first braid into place behind Daenerys’ ear. “The attack of Yunkai had almost no missteps- the slaves we’d armed fought against the Wise Masters, and the Second Sons joined our cause after Daario opened the door to the Unsullied and made it clear which was the winning side. But I suppose it’s too much to hope any battle have no stumbles. Word came to Grey Worm that skirmishes were breaking out in the city, so he took Daario and a group of Unsullied and Second Sons together to put an end to the little rebellions.”

Missandei fastened the second braid in place and continued onto the next silver section of hair, a smile on her lips. “The Queen stayed with Ser Barristan and I, but she grew restless, as she is accustomed to do,” she tugged on her mistress’ hair. An answering laugh rose up to meet her, Daenerys rolling her eyes begrudgingly.

“Ser Jorah returned from his rounds, and agreed to take the Queen to one of the lower levels, to see what was going on, much to Ser Barristan’s displeasure. He urged her to stay put, out of danger, but the Queen had set her mind on going and being seen in the city, and Ser Barristan had come to understand there was no talking the Queen out of something she had decided upon.”

Missandei straightened, catching Ser Jorah’s eye, and shook her head fondly. “Ser Barristan was quite anxious as he waited with me for the Queen to return. And still we heard no word from the Unsullied on how the skirmishes were put down. The old knight grew quite distressed; it was all I could do to keep him from pacing the floor clean as we waited. Finally, Daario returned, and in such a state- his color high, his eyes wild. He flung the doors open quite dramatically and wailed, ‘They’ve killed her, they’ve cut off her head, the butchers!’

“‘What?’ Ser Barristan demanded, horrified. ‘Who’s killed her? Where is she?’ ‘The masters, those savages!’ Daario howled in such agony. ‘They’ve ruined her, just to spite me, I’ll never be able to fix her now!’

“This response seemed quite odd to me, and so did Grey Worm’s demeanor when he entered behind Daario a moment later, for he looked much too calm for his beloved Queen to have just lost her head, but Ser Barristan was so distraught, he paid Grey Worm no notice.”

Daenerys began to giggle then, her hand fluttering up to hide her smile. Jon felt his shoulders loosen at the sound.

“‘Are you sure?’ the old knight demanded, taking Daario by the arms and rattling him about. ‘Are you quite certain it was her?’

“‘Of course it was her!’ Daario sobbed, outraged. ‘I held her in my hand- my hand! -before they pushed me against the wall and smashed her beautiful head against the stone!’

“At last, Ser Barristan seemed to have a thought that perhaps they had crossed their understandings somewhere along the line. He leaned back and gave Daario such a quizzical look,” Missandei grinned at the ungraceful snort her mistress emitted, “and at the very next moment, his distress was brought to an end, for he looked up over Daario’s shoulder to see the Queen and Ser Jorah enter the door behind him.

“‘Her head, she’s ruined!’ Daario moaned, cradling his beloved sword in his hands, revealing that the hilt- which had previously boasted two beautiful women, now presented only one, the other cruelly smashed and unrecognizable.

“‘By the gods, man,’ Ser Barristan seethed at him, ‘you were speaking of your bloody sword?!’

“Daario gave him such a look, he was utterly insulted. ‘Don’t call her that!’ he raged at him. ‘She’s been with me through so much-’

“But through what tribulations the sword had been with him, we never heard, for Ser Barristan smashed him across the face, and poor Daario dropped to the ground, nose gushing, his mangled sword sliding across the floor to land at the Queen’s feet.”

Ser Jorah huffed a satisfied laugh. “We were quite shocked,” he remembered. “I don’t think we’d ever seen Ser Barristan lose his temper before.”

“And you remember what he said to me?” Daenerys asked, twisting around to glance up at Missandei. “‘Here I thought that tragedy had come, and the Queen had lost her head,’’ Missandei nodded and joined in, “‘because to Daario, it’s a tragedy that he lost his favorite toy.’”

They both laughed, Missandei brushing strands of silver hair to the side, shaking her head.

“Ah, Ser Barristan,” Daenerys said wistfully, “and Daario,” she added as an afterthought, “silly man,” her voice twisted fondly.

An odd look passed between her and Ser Jorah, before she turned and raised an eyebrow at Jon. “Missandei,” she said, “I don’t believe the King in the North finds us as amusing as we find ourselves.”

Jon smiled, as thoroughly relaxed as he had first been uncomfortable upon entering her private domicile. “Oh no,” he assured them, “I find you quite amusing.”

“Hm,” Daenerys rolled her eyes in playful irritation. “Perhaps not in the way we’d wish to be found amusing, though.”

Jon tilted his head in mock consideration. “Perhaps not,” he said easily.

She smiled and turned her eyes to the horizon. Missandei followed her movement, coming to stand on the other side of the chaise behind her, unruffled.

Daenerys sighed. “Look at the sun, such gall it has to keep rising higher and higher in the sky, when we’re having such a lovely morning. Lord Tyrion asked me to call a small council meeting early in the day- Ser Jorah-”

The knight had already risen, pushing his chair back under the table. “Tyrion, Varys- and Lord Snow, I presume?” his eyes flicking to Jon.

“Yes,” she answered, “one hour.”

“Your Grace,” he bowed, “Missandei,” he said courteously, “my lord,” he nodded at Jon. Jon met his eyes, then watched his back descend the opposite stair, wondering if perhaps he should follow.

Missandei tugged one last knot in place, murmured to her mistress, and turned to reenter the adjoining quarters, leaving the Queen alone with him on her balcony, to Jon’s slight surprise.

This was as good a time as any to take his leave of her, head back down the stairs, check in on the mines- but he found himself quite comfortable where he was, the morning sun warm on his face, the fluttering curtains soothing and peaceful somehow-

“What?” he asked when he noticed Daenerys looking at him oddly.

She blinked, sat up straight. “Nothing,” she said quickly, then looked to the side and seemed to reconsider. “It’s just-” she stood up and crossed around the table to drop into the chair beside him. Jon twisted in his seat to keep her in view, and watched, bemused, as her eyes traveled almost greedily about his head. He shifted back against the opposite armrest, growing a touch uncomfortable again- a different kind of uncomfortable-

“Can I braid your hair?” was her completely unexpected request.

“What?” Jon asked again, laughing in astonishment.

“Oh, please,” she said, shockingly earnest. “I’m not quite ready to prepare for the meeting yet- and it’s been so long since I’ve braided a man’s hair-”

Jon found himself shaking his head in shock.

“What, men don’t braid their hair in the North?” she demanded.

“No!” Jon responded. “Cultural differences, remember?”

“Right, right,” she huffed, “‘I should know if I ever want to rule there,’ I remember.” She rolled her eyes, then set upon a different tack and leaned closer, picking at a curly strand of hair at his neck. Jon felt himself still inside, his entire being focused on her fingers winding innocently in his curls. “You have such nice hair, Jon, it’s such a shame to leave it so dull and unadorned.”

“I resent that,” he said dryly.

“I just complimented you!” Daenerys protested.

“You called me dull,” he pointed out. “At the very least, it was a backwards compliment.”

She tutted, aggrieved. “I called  _ your hair _ dull, and not even your hair, your _ hairstyle,  _ and of course it was a backwards compliment; I’m not just bestowing flattery with no purpose, I’m attempting to get my own way.”

“Most people wouldn’t come out and say that if they were truly manipulative,” Jon mused.

“Or am I exceedingly manipulative?” Daenerys widened her eyes, twisting his hair around her finger. “Perhaps I find you to be such an honest man that I believe being honest about my own machinations will help me to get what I want.”

Jon looked at her, thoroughly charmed. The last vestiges of his early-morning dream slithered away in the bright sunlight, his stomach loosening with warmth.

“Alright,” he nodded with a smile.

She stopped, her pink lips rounding in comical surprise. “Alright?” she repeated, squinting at him. “Alright?” she said again in mounting excitement.

“Alright, go ahead,” he clarified, and huffed a laugh through his nose when she bounced in her seat and clapped her hands in delight.

“Oh, you won’t regret this,” she assured him, scraping her chair closer, gesturing for him to turn his own toward the railing. “Well, maybe you will,” she amended, “but it’s nothing that can’t be undone.”

“Thank the gods for that,” he muttered.

Then he bit his tongue and willed himself to remain silent as she loosened the knot behind his head and dug her fingers against his scalp.

Jon closed his eyes at the tingling warmth that trickled down his neck and completely disarmed the ever-present tension in his muscles, the reflexes that made him ready, always, to face any attacker who attempted to take him by surprise-

Daenerys hummed behind him. She drew a line down the center of his scalp, scraped her fingernails against his neck when she separated the strands into two pieces.

Jon tried not to shiver.

He vaguely remembered having his hair washed when he was younger- much younger, for it wasn’t long before he was expected to see to his own needs, just as every other boy at Winterfell was. But, he rather thought there were a handful of times, perhaps, when the nurse had not been in a hurried rush, or a foul mood, and she had taken her time and talked to him, gliding the water peacefully about the top of his head.

He wouldn’t have even thought to remember such a moment if it weren’t for this one now, how separate and out of place it seemed within his current life.

“The last man’s hair I braided,” Daenerys mused, twisting small pieces together at his temple, pulling them tight, “was my husband’s.”

Jon blinked, unsure how he felt about the comparison- or if, indeed, it was something he should feel anything about.

“And before that, my brother’s,” she told him. “But it was only simple twists he wanted, and Viserys was fond of having the servants do it, if they were pretty enough. None of them were as pretty as I was, he always assured me, as if that was supposed to make me feel better- as if I was pining away over not being able to do it-” she huffed and was silent a moment.

Jon waited as she finished one side, let it hang behind his ear, placed her hands on his temples and turned his head gently.

“But Drogo’s braids were much more complicated,” she continued, combing her fingers through the other side, just below his forehead. Jon’s eyes fluttered closed again. “The Dothraki wear a braid for every enemy they defeat, did you know that?” She went on before he could answer. “But they must cut off a braid every time they come to shame in battle.” She separated his hair into pieces and pulled it tight. “Drogo had never been defeated- not yet- so his braids were an elaborate maze for me to tend to, and though he personally cared little for them, I think he liked when I would redo them-”

A sound must have escaped Jon then, for she stopped, leaned around him to peer into his face. He blinked at the movement.

“What?” she asked.

“What?” he repeated, a bit dumbly.

She looked at him a moment, her eyes flicking between his, before her lips curled, and she leaned back behind him again.

“I think you like it, too,” Daenerys said, her voice low, and Jon felt his stomach tingle in a very dangerous way.

He felt her twist the two sides together and fasten them. She ran her fingers along the plaits, and sat back.

“There,” she announced, “turn around.”

He turned a bit unwillingly to face her.

Her eyes travelled up the line of his nose to the crown of his head. She squinted, leaned back, and looked again.

“Oh, no,” she sighed and shook her head ruefully. “This doesn’t suit you at all.”

Jon lifted a hand to touch the braid self-consciously. “Why not?” he asked, somehow a bit let down, when he’d had every intention of taking it out again.

Daenerys furrowed her brow, a slight smile playing on her lips. “I don’t know!” she confessed. “From everything Ser Davos has told me, you should have a thousand braids,” he snorted at that, “but your features are too-” she waved a hand,  _ “Northern, _ I suppose. You look a bit ridiculous in all honesty.”

“Yes, please,” he told her, “be honest.”

She laughed. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “Come, come, let’s take it out again.”

He turned, perfectly willing to let her have her way in this instance. She unfastened the two braids and set upon unwinding them swiftly.

“Daenerys,” Jon said, touched by some unknown desire for her to know the truth. “I asked Ser Jorah to bring me to you this morning.”

She paused. “Why?” she asked.

“I realized I knew something- someone- you might be interested to hear about.” He could almost see her tilt her head curiously behind him. “When I first arrived at the Wall, even before I took my vows and joined the Night’s Watch, I met the maester, an old man who must have been there a hundred years, it seemed to me. Later, he told me his name was Aemon- Aemon Targaryen.”

Her hands dropped to his shoulders.

“Aemon-” she repeated.

“Aegon V was his younger brother,” Jon explained.

“Aegon V was my grandfather,” Daenerys’ voice wobbled.

“Yes,” Jon nodded, “he was already a maester by the time the crown passed to his brother, and lived as a brother of the Night’s Watch for many Lord Commanders before me.”

“But he died,” she clarified, her hands tightening in his surcoat.

“Yes,” Jon said regretfully. “Just before I-”  _ Just before I did, _ he almost said, but caught himself. “Just before I returned with the Wildlings from Hardhome,” he said instead.

“Hardhome,” Daenerys said softly. “That was where-”

“Where the Night King and his army slaughtered five thousand Wildlings and raised them again while I watched,” he said, stone creeping from his voice down into his heart.

She paused another moment, then lifted her hands back to his hair, pulling it smoothly from his temples to the knot he preferred.

“What was he like?” she asked. “The maester?”

Jon thought of his old friend, his face wavering in his mind’s eye. “He was kind,” Jon sighed, “and very intelligent, of course- he was a maester, after all- but he was fair, too, and just. It was his vote that made me Lord Commander,” Jon remembered suddenly, “and set me on this path I am today. Can’t be sure I’d thank him for that,” he muttered.

Daenerys hummed. “Well,” she said smartly, her voice growing strong again, “you could hardly have told me anything to make me more likely to think well of you,” she informed him, “than that my last relation did before he died.”

“I could be lying,” he felt compelled for some reason to protest.

She laughed at that.

“No,” she said, “you couldn’t.”

Jon settled back in his chair, unable to think what to say in response. He felt the moment drawing to a close, her hands fastening the knot in place, and cast about wildly for some way to prolong it.

Missandei returned then with a breakfast tray, eyebrows rising without comment at their close proximity.

Daenerys leaned back, sliding a ways apart from him.

“I should leave you,” Jon decided.

“Stay,” she invited him, “have breakfast with us.”

“Thank you,” Jon tilted his head, not wanting to spoil the encounter with his awkwardness, which he could feel rising again within him. “But I should check in at the mines before the small council meeting.” He got to his feet unwillingly. Missandei gave him a small smile before turning back to the chambers indoors.

“Wait,” Daenerys protested, catching him by the arm. “At least take one with you, if you won’t stay,” she spread her fingers at the tray of breakfast breads and pies on the table before her. She widened her eyes at him significantly. “Can’t have you running off without proper sustenance.”

He pursed his lips to cut off another smile. “Thank you,” he said, just the slightest bit begrudging, and reached for a crispy browned turnover-

“But that one’s my favorite,” she objected with a bit of a whine.

“Oh,” Jon said, pulling back quickly, “I’m sorry-” he looked up and saw the crinkle in her nose. He shook his head. “Completely amusing, you are,” he rolled his eyes.

She smiled and placed a hand on her chest. “I am, aren’t I?” she flicked her head. “It’s a family trait, you know,” she said lightly. “Conquering, dragons- and jokes, that’s what Targaryens are known for.”

Jon considered this. “Now that I think about it,” he said slowly, “the old man did have his own sense of humor.” Daenerys looked at him, curious. Jon laughed to himself. “I didn’t understand it when I was younger,” he admitted, “but looking back, I think he did quite like to take the piss out of me.”

“Really?” Daenerys breathed, delighted. “So it  _ is _ a family trait!”

Jon huffed another laugh through his nose. Missandei walked back onto the balcony before he could continue.

“Which one, Your Grace?” she asked, two thin ribbons dangling from her fingers.

Jon peered down behind her. In the girl’s left hand was a bright red ribbon, in her right, a light blue.

“Hmm,” Daenerys pondered, then turned and asked Jon, “which do you like?”

He looked from the ribbons in Missandei’s hands to the Queen and back. “For your hair?” he furrowed his brow.

“Yes,” she said.

“I’ve never seen you wear a ribbon in your hair,” Jon said, not realizing that he was giving away how often he looked that way.

“No,” Daenerys agreed, “Missandei tucks it beneath the knot of my braids.”

“Then what does it matter what color?” Jon wondered. “If no one can see it.”

She shrugged, glanced at the ribbons and looked back up at him. “It doesn’t, I suppose,” she admitted, “still, it’s nice to have a pretty little secret to get you through the day, don’t you think?”

Jon dropped his eyes, feeling his throat grow tight, his skin warm. He didn’t understand his own reaction, but he took a breath and willed his racing heart to slow.

“The blue,” he decided,  _ light like a free summer sky, _ he thought,  _ like your eyes. _

She smiled at him and nodded. Jon gave a half-bow, snatched the turnover before she could tease him further, and escaped down the stairs.

He turned his steps toward the beach and the mines, his pace easy, relaxed. What a stark change of mood from the hour before, his heart lighter, almost soft.

_ Not yet, _ the little crow had screamed at him just before dawn, and Jon had woken anxious, fearful. What was the point of thinking  _ not yet, _ he had wondered, when he wouldn’t have any choice in the matter?

And maybe there wasn’t a point, not in the giant picture of the world. Death would come for him one day or the other, and it wouldn’t pay any mind whether he was ready or not.

But in the smaller scheme of Jon’s life that day, that very morning, maybe- maybe-

-maybe the simple acknowledgement that he wasn’t ready, that he didn’t want to die, that despite all the suffering, the grief, and the ugliness, he still thought there might be some things he wanted to live for-

-maybe  _ not yet _ could be his own pretty little secret to get him through the day.


	4. Childhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mid-episode 7x05 "Eastwatch." Dany sets out in search of Jon Snow the night before he is to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and for your lovely comments! I love each and every one of you like lemon drops and candy hearts! Please leave me a note if you enjoy this chapter.

Daenerys paced the length of her bedroom chambers, turned and paced them again. Her fingers worried with the ends of her sleeves, pulling them halfway down her palms, tugging at the fur lining. She could hear the tide breaking over the rocks outside. The only other sound intruding upon her silent deliberation was the scuff of her boots.

She sighed.

It was- it was infuriating, is what it was. Hadn’t she had enough of foolhardy heroes in her short life? Hadn’t she seen enough young men die, some at her own hand, in the pursuit of such lofty goals as glory, supremacy, vengeance?

This wasn’t like that, she scolded herself. Jon Snow wasn’t going North to impress her, or to extend his Kingdom, not even for revenge of the sins committed against his family.

He was going North to protect his people- not just his people,  _ all  _ living persons, he claimed. The mission was part of a bigger plan to gain support for his cause, this was true, but still: his cause was to save people, not force dominion over them.

Dany pulled a string loose from her sleeve and wound it absentmindedly around her finger.

It wouldn’t take that long- a few weeks, perhaps, and then they would march on King’s Landing together, convince Cersei to pull back her armies for the time being, so they could go North and-

Well, so she could help Jon Snow defeat his enemies. Her brow furrowed when she remembered what he had said. Dead men raised by some terrible power wielded by ancient dead creatures...

She felt a chill shiver through her stomach.

Dany shook her head. She wasn’t clear on the particulars, and for now, she didn’t need to know. She had come to trust Jon Snow, and if he said he needed her help, she believed him.

Still...

...why did he feel so strongly that  _ he  _ needed to go? Surely there were others who could lead the raid, one of his brothers in the Night’s Watch, perhaps.

Maybe he was tired of being here. She had kept him on the island, under her thumb, for nearly two months. He’d had nothing to do but mine dragonglass, and active young men tended to want a bit of excitement from time to time-

One would think that walking about an island where three dragons roamed freely would offer enough excitement for any man, Daenerys thought testily.

She stopped in front of her mirror, narrowed her eyes at her reflection.

What was she doing?

She’d told him he could go, and she wasn’t about to go back on her word to an honorable man like Jon Snow, so what was the point in fretting over it?

What was done was done: he was leaving in the morning, and that was all there was to it.

He was the one who was leaving, and she was the one left behind.

Dany closed her eyes and tried not to groan.

It was just- it had been so long since she’d found herself in the company of someone she respected so completely. When was the last time she had a conversation with a person without wondering what they weren’t saying, without sifting through each word and phrase to determine which were true and which were spoken in attempt to manipulate her? When was the last time she felt confident that her companion was not studying her to find out her weaknesses, either to use against her or to guide her along a path they felt more suitable, but allowed her to simply... be? Who listened to her reasoning, then presented his own views honestly, but without the objective to change her, prove her wrong?

Missandei, of course, was her true friend, a gentle, loyal spirit for whom Daenerys would always be grateful. But it was different with Jon Snow, she didn’t know exactly how, but it was, and she refused to believe it was simply because he was an attractive young man close to her in age.

He was, though, young- and attractive.

That wasn’t the point, Dany exclaimed inwardly. The point was- what  _ was  _ the point?

The point was... Daenerys had come to think of him as something close to a kindred spirit, and the trust and ease that had seeped into their last few conversations had made her believe they were approaching something close to friendship.

Now he was leaving for a dangerous place on a dangerous mission. She would be uneasy for any friend in such a situation.

He could... die, Dany realized suddenly, the fact dropping unpleasantly into her stomach. She felt her spine tingle oddly, her shoulders tensing. The thought took her breath away, her heart skipping cruelly. She opened her eyes and stared again at her own reflection.

What if he died? What if he crossed the Wall, and something went wrong? What if he found himself surrounded by dead men, torn to pieces by dark magic just like Drogo, just like her son? What if he froze to death, alone, miserable, in a place she had never been with no hope of finding his body? He wouldn’t even be laid to rest with his ancestors.

Her eyes burned, her chest cold and tight.

He would be dead, then, and she would go on as she always had, alone.

She gasped at the prospect, dread opening up, dark and deep, inside her.

It wasn’t worth thinking of, she told herself sternly, and angrily blinked hot tears away.

Still, it was-  _ possible, _ and the idea shook her, took hold of her, wrapped its way around and around her thoughts so tightly there was no hope of her getting rid of it.

He was leaving tomorrow, and she might never see him again, and the last words she had spoken to him were detached, imperious, a Queen attempting to flex her power over a subject.

It was detestable, and Daenerys felt a cold wave of shame that it might be one of his last memories of her.

She set her shoulders, coming to a decision, then smoothed her hands down the front of her jacket, wound her fingers through her loose curls to tighten their spring, and leaned in close to the mirror to inspect her face-

Dany realized what she was doing, then, and jumped back, turned away with a huff. She clenched her fists and swept through the door without a backwards glance.

His men were preparing their ship for departure. Since Tyrion had departed with Ser Davos for King’s Landing, the dragonglass mine on the other side of the island had been a flurrying hub of workers packing up their tools, breaking down their makeshift scaffolding, and hauling stone out to the ferry boats. Daenerys crossed the second landing encircling the bottom level of her castle, wrapped her arms around the neck of an adolescent stone dragon, and leaned far over the edge to squint down at the ants scurrying along the sand.

There he was- a figure separate from the semi-circle crowded around him. Dany noted with some confusion that he held a torch in one hand, the other gesturing here and there as he spoke to his attendants. Dusk had only just started to gather, the sky not yet a deep blue, and there was plenty of light to see by down at the beach. She supposed he intended to return to the mines, though why she could not fathom. He’d mined her out of house and home- not truly, of course, for there were miles and miles of tunnels winding beneath her ancestral seat, the walls studded with sparkling pockets of dragonglass- but, certainly, he’d mined as much as could be ferried North.

The crowd began to disperse, the men pulling the boat into the water and shoving off from shore. Jon stood a few moments longer, speaking with a handful of stragglers, before they, too, turned and departed, heading inland toward the castle.

Jon crossed the wet beach, the orange dot of his torch flickering in Dany’s eyes. She pulled herself up from the ledge and hastened down the stairs, her boots clicking a hurried staccato.

She stopped at the bottom, her hand slipping over the wet stone balustrade. She peered across the open beach, her heart opening, as it always did, to the liberating scent of sea salt and waves.

Her spine straightened when she saw him reappear from the darkness at the mouth of the cave. He shifted a leather sack over one shoulder, then turned toward the sea and marched along the side of the cliff, picking his way through great granite boulders.

Dany narrowed her eyes, then took off across the sand after him.

She reached the boulders and set her hands upon them, climbed from the beach onto the upper crags. Jon Snow’s back was growing smaller as he weaved swiftly around the cliffside, his steps surer and quicker than hers, already fifty yards ahead.

The tide sprayed stinging mists of salt water against the rocks, spattering her jacket, cold moisture gathering along her cheek. Daenerys stopped on the flat top of one wide rock and squinted against the wind. Jon scrambled up a steep ledge of boulders ahead of her, looked down in front of himself, and jumped, his wavering torch disappearing from view.

Dany muttered her favorite curse under her breath, picked out a path with her eyes through the jagged rubble between them, and set off again. A great wave crashed against the cliff beside her, and she watched, fascinated, her breath stolen by its terrible power. The water curled, white and foamy, through the sand wedged up between the rocks beneath her feet. The tide pulled out again before charging back for more, the wind whistling its lovely, howling sea song.

She’d never explored this far around Dragonstone’s stony cliffs, and certainly not nearly so far while alone, unprotected. She felt a reckless sense of freedom take over, tingling down her shoulder blades. If this was what Jon was looking for- a wild solitude, the reminder that they were, after all, only small, precious threads in a great, snarling tapestry of clay and dust- Dany thought he’d be hard-pressed to find a better spot for it.

She looked up the rocky ledge he had ascended, sodden tendrils sticking to her cheeks. She set her palms upon the wet granite and began to climb, her boots sliding against loose gravel.

More precious to me than jewels, than gold-   
I open my hand, my heart, to hold   
The joy of a bird in a great open sky;   
How favored to stand on this country am I.

Dany pulled herself up to the top and stood still and tall in the bustling winds, breathing hard. She’d completely lost sight of Jon, but rather than feeling frustrated or fearful, she found a pure sense of satisfaction settling over her. She was powerful, here, somehow made strong by her own insignificance against the length of the heavens above her, the roaring depth of the seas below.

She looked down and saw a series of ledges under her boots, the path he must have followed before her.

Dany jumped, landed firmly on both feet, and skipped along the jagged aisle.

She remembered living in Braavos when she was a girl, only six, maybe seven? Viserys had begun his studies a year or so before- history, strategy, warfare, even languages and, of course, fighting with a blade. He’d crowed his many duties and lessons over her every morning and evening (and his many successes, too, which even at her tender age Dany remembered finding less than probable), but between times, Daenerys had often found herself alone with somewhat careless supervision.

She’d been such a quiet girl, content to help with the mending when needed (which wasn’t much), more often than not in her room, looking at the pictures in a book she’d borrowed from her brother’s room (always to return with haste before he finished his lessons), a book detailing the history of Westeros and her family’s dynasty.

The housekeeper knew who they were, of course, and it made her fearful, edgy. Two children whose entire family had been wiped off the face of the planet, why were they left behind, shouldn’t they have left the world with them? So, the housekeeper preferred to check in on Daenerys only a few times each day to see to her pressing needs- her meals, her clothes, the cleanliness of her room and her body, did she have enough books to keep her occupied, did she want another needle for her embroidery- and Dany was such a solemn little child, hardly ever asking for anything, that she quite often forgot she was there.

Daenerys had no friends besides Viserys, but she was familiar with the concept of friends: other children around her age to talk to, to play with. But what did they talk about? Viserys spoke about his history lessons with her, Aegon’s Conquest and the Dance of the Dragons (a note of warning in his voice when he told her how Aegon II fed his sister to his dragon Sunfyre), but Dany had a feeling these weren’t the kinds of stories that other children talked of, or at least they weren’t the  _ only  _ stories they talked about.

And what kind of games did they play? She and Viserys would run through the parlor, reenacting Aegon’s steps- Dragonstone to Blackwater Rush to Maidenpool and on- but Dany sometimes felt that this was less a game for her to play and more orders from Viserys to follow. “Now be Visenya and set the crown on my head,” he’d demand, “now be Rhaenys and go over by the window, to Dorne.” Besides, Dany didn’t think that other children could be so interested in Targaryen history as she was- it was glorious, of course, and awe-inspiring, but it was personal to her in a way it wouldn’t be to other children, and it was her burden to know, not theirs.

So what games did children, friends, play together? Dany hadn’t known, and she didn’t like not knowing- it was a weakness not to know something that so many others did.

One day, Daenerys had climbed on top her dresser- she’d been looking for an old legacy picture book, the one with a likeness of her mother on one of the last few pages, that must have been placed on the top of her bookshelf and shoved to the back behind her notebooks and Viserys’ unwanted nursery tales- when she stopped, peered out the window, and saw that the tree branch outside her bedroom stretched well past the eaves-

Dany was on the roof and shimmying down the tree trunk before she’d even had a moment to think about it.

She would come to realize, in time, that this instinctual response of hers to jump without looking when an opportunity struck was not always the best or wisest course of action- but Dany looked back only with gratitude on those days, sneaking through the window and climbing down the tree, free of the empty, distant house, free of her brother and the demands of her lineage, free of herself- simply a child for once, exploring the streets and alleys around her house.

Her steps tended toward the sea, until one afternoon she turned a corner and opened her eyes to a straggly group of boys and girls, running along the boardwalks, shouting and clutching to each other, squealing, laughing.

Dany pulled up short, her eyes wide. Had she ever seen so many children together in one place before? More than ten, at least, all appearing between her own and Viserys’ age.

What were they doing? she wondered. There seemed to be two teams with some sort of competing objective between them, but there was so much running and weaving for her to follow, first one player was tagged out and moaned piteously, then suddenly he was the predator, the other children giggling and running away, but then another was a hunter, too, and another, teaming together to round up the smaller ones, the little children screaming in outrage.

“Who are you?” a voice asked at her shoulder, and she jumped, turned. A boy with dark curls and darker eyes looked back at her curiously.

“I’m Dany,” she said, feeling shy.

“I haven’t seen you before,” the boy said, glancing at her strange silver hair, “not in any of Pere Rodrey’s lessons.”

“Oh- no,” Dany said, reluctant to explain further.

“Do you want to play?” he asked.

“I don’t know how,” she said.

“Well, then, better hope you’re fast,” he said cheekily. “And you should know: rules say, if a boy catches a girl, he has to give her a kiss.”

Dany’s eyes widened. “What about when a girl catches a boy?” she asked, not recognizing her own nerve.

He smirked. “You don’t know the rules, I’m not going to tell you,” he responded. “I’ll give you five seconds’ head start.”

Dany stared at him.

“Five,” he counted pointedly, “four-”

She turned and ran toward the docks, an unfamiliar giggle bubbling up her throat.

Dany smiled now at the memory and skipped across another boulder. She wiped muddy palms down her skirt, jumped down another ledge-

“Daenerys?” a voice said, close at hand. Jon Snow peered up the cliffside at her, his torch still flickering in the darkening air, a bemused look on his face. “What are you doing here?”

Dany blinked, feeling impossibly as though she had been caught in the kitchens with her hand in the pastry dish. “What am I doing here?” she repeated, drawing herself up tall, glaring down at him. “I live here. What are  _ you  _ doing here?”

Jon glanced over either shoulder, at the unforgiving granite cliff on one side, the sea raging on the other, then back up at her. “You live  _ here?” _ he asked, raising his brow.

Daenerys crouched, slid her feet out from under her, jumped down from the rock to land at his feet. She stood up again, brushed her hands together, and crossed her arms. “Yes,” she said stubbornly.

He stared at her for a moment, his lip quirking oddly before he drew himself inward, looked over her shoulder.

“Have you ever been this far out on the crags before?” he asked.

Dany huffed. “Dragonstone is  _ my  _ stronghold,” she said, lifting her chin. “I can explore the island as I please.”

“And have you?” he asked, tilting his head.

Dany blinked.

“Perhaps- not- this far,” she admitted unwillingly.

“So why are you here?” he asked again.

“I just asked you the same question!” she exclaimed, exasperated.

“Yes,” Jon said patiently, “but I asked you first.”

Dany clenched her fists, forced herself not to stamp her foot. “I was just,” she started slowly, horrified to feel heat rising on her cheeks, “out- for a  _ walk,” _ she spread her fingers pointedly, without any real idea what her point was, “and I... wanted to see if-”  _ think, Dany, think, _ she urged herself desperately, “-you had everything you’d need for the journey ahead,” she finished, somewhat exuberant at herself.

“Hmm,” Jon responded.

Dany swallowed, crossed her arms again. “What?” she snapped testily.

Jon shook his head, lifted his free hand in appeasement. “I didn’t say anything,” he said.

Dany bit her lip. This had been a terrible idea, hadn’t it? Why had she followed him so far, she could have turned back when she’d noticed the sky darkening, could have called on him in the morning. Now she was stranded out here on the rocks, unable to find her way back without a light-

She pulled at her wet hair anxiously.

Jon glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at her, lifting his torch. “Does anyone know you’re out here?” he asked.

“No,” she said, trying not to be sullen.

“That’s not very smart,” he said.

Dany felt herself bristle.

“I meant no offense,” Jon said quickly. “That came out- more rudely than I intended.”

She pulled at her cuffs, found the loose string again and wound it around her fingers. “I suppose I just- lost track of it all,” she confessed. “There haven’t been so many clear days to explore the cliffs, and I wanted to speak to you before you left, and then, the tide- and the endless sky- and-” she looked at their wild surroundings, breathed deeply, felt the freedom settle again in her bones, “-to be alone, away from- everything, held entirely within the greatness of the world-” she looked up at him, “-I forgot myself for a moment.”

Jon was still, the light flickering oddly over his features. She saw his chest rise and fall, and then-

“Do you want me to take you back?” he asked.

“I want to know where you’re going!” she answered.

He smiled, his laugh stopping gently in his throat. “Well, come on, then,” he said, lifting his torch higher, holding out his other arm to guide her beside him.

Daenerys picked her way in front of him, the warm glow of the fire throwing their immediate surroundings in clearer repose. She felt awkward, almost clumsy, and watched her steps carefully as he pointed out the path he had set. It wouldn’t do any good to lose her footing, to slip and fall and injure herself- throw herself into his care-

“Straight ahead,” he said behind her shoulder, lifting his arm in signal. She stopped, squinted forward, and he halted at her heels, his arm brushing against hers as he lowered it to his side. She felt his breath on her neck, the warmth of his figure close at her back- an odd, shivery flush swept through her, tingling frighteningly low in her tummy-

“You should go before me,” Daenerys said, taking a step away from him. “I don’t see your destination.”

He nodded, paced ahead, checked back over his shoulder that she was behind. They descended another set of ledges, spaced evenly in the cliffside, winding back and forth to ease the steepness of the descent- Dany realized suddenly that the steps were too regular to be natural, but must have been designed, constructed by someone with the purpose of making this road easier to travel, the destination accessible to those with feet to carry them, eyes to see-

She stopped at the bottom of the stair, looked up with wide eyes at the islet pushed up from the deserted beach. They were in a notch in the cliffside, the air free and open above them, the granite crags rising high and imposing on either side. A ship sailing about the island might be able to make its way through the narrows, but the captain would need to know the hideaway was there to find it in the first place.

The islet wound, green and lush, up from black waters lapping calmly at its edges. Dany’s eyes travelled up the bumpy pathway from the beach to the enclave’s central mound. Jon was picking his way through wide, twisting white waves, shiny and round- they were roots, Dany realized, and at the top of the mound clawed a great, lush-

“Is that,” Daenerys started in a whisper, cleared her throat and raised her voice, “Is that a weirwood tree?” she asked.

Jon turned halfway up the winding root path and looked at her in the gathering dark. “Yes,” he answered.

“How can that be?” Dany asked, awe finding her again. “They were all destroyed thousands of years ago- except in the North-”

“I’ve come to accept,” Jon said, turning over his shoulder to peer up at the blood red leaves, “that there are many impossible things in this world.”

“I’ve never seen one before,” Daenerys told him, stepping closer.

“What, never?” Jon looked back at her in surprise, then considered. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t have. Still, I can’t imagine- they’ve been so significant in my life-”

“Really?” Dany asked, picking her way carefully through the crawling roots. “Why?”

He looked at her strangely, tilted his head. “Come,” he said in answer.

The climbed up to the top of the mound, the base of the tree spread wide and inviting at their feet. Jon swung his bag off his shoulder, pulled out a scratched-up, three-legged pedestal and placed his torch inside it, finding a flat spot he’d clearly found before to stand it on the ground, the light burning calmly in the quiet night.

Daenerys looked up at the white branches spread like bony fingers in a placid welcome. The colors of her House were black and red, but the red of this tree’s foliage was different,  _ felt  _ different, somehow. Indelible, remarkable, but less passionate, more... enduring.

She ran her hand along the smooth bark, stepped around the tree, trailing her fingers. It was warm, wasn’t it? Or was that only her imagination? She closed her eyes, spread her hand wide, and listened.

Mother of dragons, the tree whispered to her. Do not be afraid.

Daenerys opened her eyes, pulled back half a step. She looked down at her fingers, could almost see the spirit buzzing through the trunk into her flesh, trickling warm and sweet in her blood.

“Daenerys?” she thought Jon Snow asked behind her, but she closed her eyes again, drawn by some unknown persuasion to lean in and press her cheek against the bark.

The boy jumped ahead of her, his hair gleaming like starlight in the summer sun. He landed with a splash in the muddy creek bed, laughed and took off again.

“Be careful!” she exclaimed, her heart twisting unpleasantly.

He looked over his shoulder at her, widened his strange dark eyes.

“I know where I’m going,” he assured her. “Follow me, Mother!”

Daenerys jumped back with a gasp. The tree’s trunk glistened, white and innocent, at her.

“Are you alright?” Jon asked, concern in his voice.

Dany blinked, shaken.

“I saw-” she started, “I thought I saw-”

“What?” he asked, intrigued.

Her eyes slid toward him. The dark had fully gathered now, the flickering torch casting odd shadows around them, the white weirwood roots glowing with some internal breath.

“Have you seen things before, when you touch the bark?” she asked instead of answering. “Is that a common occurrence with the weirwood? I hadn’t read anything about it.”

“No,” Jon told her, “I haven’t seen anything, but there are others in the North who claim they do- my brother Bran, Sansa says, receives his visions through them.”

Daenerys felt her chest rise and fall, her heart beating in her throat, and compelled herself to breathe normally, glancing back to the tree.

_ What was that? _ she wondered, then,  _ nothing but a passing fancy, _ she told herself. Still, she stepped away and approached Jon, careful to keep herself from touching it again.

“What did you bring?” she asked, eyeing the bag he had dropped to the ground.

He raised his brow. “Curious,” he commented lightly, then stooped to pick it up and settled himself down at the base of the tree. Dany followed apprehensively, curling her feet under her when she sat beside him, leaning against her knees so as not to make contact with the trunk behind her.

Jon pulled out a small block of wood, a knife, an odd chisel with a sharp tip. He turned it so she could see one corner of the block giving birth to the outline of a scaled wing, then fished around at the bottom of the bag again. He sat up, fist clenched, and placed something gently in her hand.

Dany looked down at a small wooden wolf, ears pointed, snout raised on the trail of a scent in the air.

She smiled and brushed her finger down its tail. “And here I thought you didn’t have any personal interests besides White Walkers,” she said.

He set her a look. “Or I you,” he said pointedly, “besides ruling.”

She huffed a sigh. “Conquering, for now,” she corrected him. “We’re not quite at the ruling point yet.”

“Someday,” he said, a bit detached, and turned back to his wooden block. She watched him set the edge of the knife carefully upon the corner, small scrapes revealing another scale below.

“Why-” Dany wanted to ask, but felt wrong to intrude upon his quiet labor.

Jon squinted down at the block, turned it in the flickering light. “The weirwood reminds me of my father, makes me feel calm,” he explained. “And so does the carving. I like to remember him before I set off to do something brave- and stupid,” he smiled ruefully to himself.

“Why?” she asked again, entranced by the efficient movement of his hands.

Jon stopped, sat up, and looked at her. “What do you mean, why?” he asked, and though his words were judgemental, his tone was anything but, curious, soft, gentle.

Dany shifted, squeezed her hands with her legs on the undersides of her knees, shrugged her shoulders. “Why do you like to remember your father before a mission?” she asked. “Does it make you feel strong?”

Jon stared at her. Dany started to feel uncomfortable and looked away, back to the flame licking up from the torch. After a moment, Jon raised his knife again and returned to his work.

“Yes,” he said simply, brushing loose flakes away. “The older I get, the more I understand how many things I have to be grateful for. And at the top of that list is the memory of my father.”

Daenerys looked down at her feet and thought about this. She wondered if she understood what he meant. He was only a bit older than her- was this a lesson she should have learned by now? She didn’t like not knowing something she was supposed to know.

“Like how I-” she furrowed her brow, “think of my children to feel brave?” she offered uncertainly. “Or the glory of my ancestors?”

Jon glanced at her again. She almost thought she saw a flicker of sadness in the shadows sliding across his face, but she couldn’t understand what she had said that would cause such a response. “Yes,” he answered, giving her a small smile, “it’s like that.”

It wasn’t, though, Dany was suddenly sure, and she felt a prickle of hurt that he didn’t think she would be able to comprehend what he meant. She sighed and leaned back, stiffening when her shoulder blades made contact with the weirwood’s smooth trunk. She turned and looked at the tree warily, but nothing untoward happened to her thoughts, no unexpected visions presented themselves to her.

Dany settled back against the weirwood and allowed herself to relax.

“Is this what you would do when you were a child?” Dany wanted to know. “When you had to be brave?”

Jon laughed to himself. “Didn’t have much cause to need to be brave back then,” he said.

Dany blinked. She wanted to ask him what he meant, but he already seemed less than confident in her capacity to understand his experiences, so she bit her tongue and stayed silent.

“I did pretend I was a hero who needed to be brave,” he said unexpectedly. Dany tilted her head and tried to picture him as a child, quiet and solemn like her, with strange dark eyes like deep warm pools of hidden springs, like the boy the tree had shown her-

Dany sat up straight, her heart pounding in her ears. That was- that wasn’t-

“My favorite legendary hero to playact was Daeron the Brave,” he confessed.

“Really?” Daenerys asked, shoulders loosening, her attention pulled by this news.

“Mm,” Jon nodded in assent. “A fourteen-year-old King who led his men into battle and strove to dominate the only Kingdom his predecessors could not defeat? He was my idol.”

“The Young Dragon,” Dany said dreamily. Jon huffed a laugh through his nose, lifted one shoulder. “But Daeron lost the war in the end,” she continued. “His conquest came to nothing when the Dornish rose up against him and killed him in a trap.”

“I know,” he said. “These are not things one thinks of as a child, though,” he shook his head.

But...  _ she’d _ thought of it. She’d read her ancestor’s  _ Conquest of Dorne _ and had wept to think of him dead, finished in a ditch, his pride and his ideals come to nothing, gone at the tender age of eighteen.

She’d had to think of it, she supposed. She had to learn how to be better than the Targaryens who died before her.

“Besides,” Jon continued, “ten thousand men dead to take Dorne, another fifty thousand to lose it? I no longer believe boys should play at war.”

Daenerys felt her insides deflate at the contempt in his voice. She looked down at the little wooden wolf, still curled in her fingers, and pressed it against her heart.

“Ser Barristan told me,” she started, swallowed down the waver in her voice, “that many would say the gods flipped a coin whenever a Targaryen was born: greatness on one side, madness on the other.”

Jon glanced at her over his shoulder, then stopped, set down his block and leaned closer. “Perhaps that’s true,” he said gently, “but that’s true of all people, too. Some are strong and honorable, others are weak and twisted. Targaryens might just be a bit more- extreme than most.”

Dany rolled her eyes. “Dramatic, you mean?”

He smiled. “An ingrained flair for drama, perhaps,” he agreed.

Dany smiled back at him, a warmth flooding her senses. It curled, happy and content, around her heart.

“But I would playact as Daeron the Brave,” Jon continued, sitting back again, “riding a great stallion into battle, my armies behind me, fighting for glory for myself and my men.” He rubbed the back of his hand against his brow ruefully. “Of course, now I know that battles aren’t for glory, they’re for death- yours, or your enemy’s. But, even then, I knew the hero’s glory would never be mine.”

“Why not?” Daenerys asked, confused.

“Because,” Jon sighed, a hint of bitterness creeping for the first time into his voice, “I was not my father’s trueborn son and Winterfell was never meant to be my home. I could never hope to be anything more than what I was, Ned Stark’s bastard.”

“Why should that have made any difference?” Dany said.

Jon turned on her with an incredulous look. “There are no knights in the North,” he said, “and the illegitimate son of a man with five trueborn children could hardly hold out hope for a lordship. How was I to distinguish myself? I was a bastard,” he said.

“Yes,” Dany interrupted him, “and I was sold to a Dothraki horselord, little better than a common whore.” She tilted her head at him. “Do you think of me as a whore?” she asked.

“What?” Jon exclaimed, horrified. “No-”

“Good,” she settled back against the tree. “I don’t think of myself that way either. My name is very important to me, but it’s because of the duty I feel to my ancestors, to end their legacy with pride. Perhaps when I was younger, I believed I was owed certain gifts as a Targaryen, but I try not to think that way anymore. What you make of yourself is what counts, and a Northern bastard has as much right as any man to make himself a hero, just as a Dothraki whore does.”

Jon sat, still as a statue, his face in profile to her, shadows deep in the strong lines of his jaw. He was silent so long that Dany closed her eyes, let the ancient tree’s warmth nestle in her loose limbs.

Eventually, she heard the soft scraping of his knife again, the torch crackling quietly a few feet away. The notch of his chisel, his breath as he blew loose flakes away, the creak of the weirwood beneath him as he shifted, wrapped around Dany like a comforting blanket, her heart slowing, her mind lulled to rest.

The stars shone bright and close in the clear black sky when Jon shook her awake.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, “but the torch is burning low; we have to head back now.”

Dany blinked, looked around herself, confused.

“Did I fall asleep?” she asked, a touch embarrassed.

“You did,” Jon nodded, a soft smile curling his lips.

Dany felt her heart skip, and swallowed, pulled herself up. She brushed her hands down her skirt, wondered at the straggly mess of her hair.

Jon picked up the torch, slid the pedestal in his bag and swung it over his shoulder. He looked back at her in question.

Daenerys stepped ahead of him, turning her feet toward the jagged stone stair, and home.

They walked in silence, the night peaceful, easy, serene. The tide had been coaxed to a quiet ripple, waters lapping amiably at the stone cliffs.

He was leaving in those waters tomorrow, and the thought bruised against her tender heart, a great cold sadness coiling up from her stomach, lodging painfully in her chest.

_ Tears? _ she asked herself disdainfully.  _ What call could there be for tears? _

_ He’s the most honest man you’ve ever met, _ another voice said sharply,  _ and you can’t even be honest with yourself. _

She blinked rapidly, watching her feet.

_ He’s leaving in the morning, _ Dany warred with herself.  _ If he doesn’t- if he comes back, I’ll deal with it then. What’s the point of facing it now? _

_ The point, _ the voice said,  _ is to be honest. _

They stopped at the cave, where Jon stashed his bag, then mounted the stair to the castle.

_ I can’t, _ she thought desperately.  _ I can’t- _

“Well,” Jon said, facing her when they reached the top landing. “Thank you for your company.” She smiled faintly, stared blankly at the direwolf on his chest. “Good night, Your Grace,” he said, and turned to leave.

“Jon,” Dany started, her heart racing.

He turned back and looked at her, the torch nearly burnt to blackened embers, the beloved lines of his face hidden from her.

She bent her head and swallowed down cruel tears.

“You forgot this,” she whispered and held out the little wooden wolf.

He stepped forward to peer down at her hand, smiling when he saw the outline of the figure he’d carved.

“You keep that one,” he told her.

She nodded, folded it in her hands, and watched as he walked away along the gallery, disappearing in the dark.

_ If he comes back, _ she promised herself,  _ I’ll tell him. Eventually, I’ll tell him. _

He’d be patient with her, she knew.


	5. Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please comment if you enjoy!

The dragons circled and swooped above the water’s still surface, their enthusiasm lackluster.

The winds picked up, stinging her cheeks, still raw from the excursion north. Daenerys bent her head, allowed her hair to tangle forward, a silver veil to shield her from the elements.

Between the strands she stared down at her clasped hands, down at her feet, two small boots pressed calmly upon the earth a foot’s length apart. If she moved, if she stepped away from this spot, would the weight of her, the whole of her, sinking down even now through her bones, down down her leaden stomach into her little boots- if she moved, would there be an imprint left behind, a sign that she had been there, stood there,  _ felt  _ there... or would the spongy moss pop back up and the dirt settle into its grooves, clean and unmarked by her presence?

The flame feeds from the earth to ascend the heavens, but all fire, no matter its strength, returns to the earth in the end.

Daenerys didn’t know- she  _ didn’t know- _ so she stayed where she was, and let the sea winds snarl her hair against her downturned face.

_ How  _ could there be so many of them?

How could there be even  _ one? _

She was the blood of Old Valyria; she knew there was more to this life than could be seen with the eye or explained by the mind.

She was the last of the Targaryens. She thought she knew what that meant; she thought she understood why the gods had seen fit to end the reign of her House, her family’s line with her.

Fire and Blood, that was why.

Wasn’t it?

The Targaryens escaped the Doom and conquered Westeros, extending their lives another three hundred years, because a second son- or daughter-  _ someone  _ had seen a vision of the coming disaster and warned them to escape.

She was alive today because her ancestors believed that truth could be found in visions.

She had seen- she had  _ seen  _ her dragons hatching, growing strong, flying free and fierce. She had slept with them tucked beside her in her nest of blankets while she waited for Drogo to come for her. She had felt them, all three of them- Drogon, Rhaegal,  _ Viserion- _ waking inside their stone shells, coming to life at her touch. She had felt Viserion’s snout resting stubbornly upon her shoulder even before he had hatched.

She had walked into the fire, lit the pyre herself and climbed upon it, ignored the flames licking away her silk dress, shearing off the ends of her hair, her nails hissing and dripping off her fingertips, because she had seen her dragons strong, and healthy, and  _ alive. _

She had seen them in a dream.

But now Viserion was dead- sliced to ribbons- gouged- frozen- gone. His blood painted a lonely lake of ice red so far north that no one would ever see it, his body burned from the inside out as she had watched, far below, unable to help him or avenge him.

Why hadn’t she seen  _ that? _

Why hadn’t she known the danger he was in, the danger she had brought him to, his mother, her child, her baby?

The ice welled up in her heart and cracked, tears breaking loose, a great wave pulsing against the feeble walls of her restraint.

Her shoulders tightened so hard she thought they would break, but the tears came all the same, so she bent her neck even further against the island winds, crawling inside herself as her grief clamored to the surface.

She trusted Jon Snow, knew him in her heart to be a man of his word, but still she hadn’t believed what he’d told her, not truly.

That wasn’t his fault, she realized now. It was hers.

It wouldn’t have changed her actions, she knew, she would have answered his plea for help even if she had- but maybe, if they had gone together, or if she had asked him not to go, maybe- maybe-

She wept.

Drogon screamed his anger at her across the cresting tide. Rhaegal answered him, less fiercely, more morose, and dipped into the setting sun.

“I know,” she whispered, tears dripping off her nose. “I’m sorry.”

Her remorse didn’t matter, though. She had thought one thing all her life, been so sure of her path, her power, her purpose-

But she had been wrong, and now she was the mother of two dragons, not three, and there was an army of death who wanted to take her dragons from her, kill her, kill everyone, take everything away-

-and they could.

The red priests and priestesses had called her Azor Ahai, the Princess that was Promised, and she’d thought that meant glory and victory for her and her people- but she was a fool to believe that, after all.

Only death can pay for life, that was the one truth of her existence.

Fire and Blood were the words of House Targaryen, but they weren’t just for her enemies. Fire and Blood was for everyone, the living and the dead, and she was not exempt.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willed away the jumbled turnings of her mind, her terror, the remembrance of the silent creature who had killed her child, the dead army waiting patiently for her.

_ If I look back I am lost, _ she whispered to herself, and again-  _ If I look back I am lost. _

_ I am lost either way,  _ her mind whispered back, and she moaned, clutched her arms to herself, shivered.

A hand on her shoulder shocked her, and she jumped, blood pulsing.

“Daenerys?” Jon Snow was beside her, his expression perplexed. “Are you alright?”

“What?” she asked dumbly, heart racing.

“I’ve been-” he started, eyes widening as he looked at her face. “I’ve been calling your name- you didn’t seem able to hear me.”

She blinked. “Oh,” she said, and swallowed. “I’m sorry,” Daenerys met his eyes and forgot the excuse she was preparing to make.

“Are you-” his eyes flicked between hers. His throat bobbed with his next breath. “You’re crying,” he said. His fingers tightened around her shoulder.

“Yes,” she whispered, and wondered what he would say to that.

He dropped his eyes to her feet for a moment, took a breath. She followed his gaze as it travelled back up to hers.

“I can’t remember if I said this,” Jon said, “but thank you, Dany. I wouldn’t be alive-  _ none  _ of us would have made it back- without you.”

Her breath shuddered in her chest, but she controlled it down and gave him a weak smile. “I know,” she said, “it was worth it.”

He exhaled, shook his head. “Are you sure about that?” he asked softly.

Daenerys was startled. “Of course,” she said. “Now I know the truth. I saw it with my own eyes. ‘I was blind, but no longer,’” she sighed.

He shifted from one foot to the other, looked over at the sunset, her remaining children winging around and around the open waters. She became suddenly aware that his hand still rested, firm and heavy, on her shoulder. “Some things,” he said, “might be better not to know.”

She thought oddly of her father, then, pictured the old man with stringy hair from the pocket visage Viserys had saved, sat hunched and greasy upon the Iron Throne, calling for fire and blood with a gnarled hand, calling it for Jon Snow’s grandfather, his uncle.

Daenerys turned and stepped away, Jon’s hand falling back to his side. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard.  _ If I look back I am lost, _ she almost said to herself, but there was no point to it now, and no comfort either.

“Yes,” she agreed, “most things, I would say.”

She brushed a hand over her wet cheeks, wiped the moisture from her nose, her chin. She tried to take the moment to gather herself, staring unseeingly down the cliffside to the tide crashing against the rocks. But the pieces of her were too scattered and too jagged, when she tried to sweep them up and force them back down inside, they slipped away or turned and sliced her brittle hands, the soft white skin beneath her arms.

She felt- on the edge of herself, looking down into the depths of her own existence, the truth about her life, her purpose, the lies she had told herself about her own mortality-

She shuddered, her terror cresting up her throat, the black wave sweeping up the edges of her vision.

Jon stepped beside her again, one foot between hers, and grasped his fingers around her arms. He turned her around and stared down into her face.

“Daenerys,” he rasped, “tell me.”

His eyes were- so warm, she thought nonsensically. The line of his nose- the deceptive softness of his mouth-

Her breath came out unevenly again, her stomach shuddering. “Tell you what?” she asked.

His hands tightened. Her own fluttered up to his elbows. “Tell me what you fear,” she watched his eyes flick to her lips, returning quickly to her gaze. “Talk to me,” he begged her.

She managed to gather herself enough to stand at her full height. “The dragon does not weep,” she told him, “the dragon is not afraid.”

Jon pulled back a hair’s breadth, studying her. “You don’t have to do that,” he said.

“I do,” she returned.

“Why?” he pushed.

The wind rose up in a great howl then, snapping his cloak around his legs, fluttering through the furs at his neck. She turned her face into it, closing her eyes, willing herself away, into the sky with her children.

She looked back up at him, trapped inside her body, held firmly between his hands. The tears pushed their way to the surface again, stood stubbornly in her eyes.

“I am the last dragon, Jon,” she whispered desperately. “All I ever wanted was to know my family and to go home- but I am the last dragon, so I do not get to choose.”

His eyes were so brown, but there was lightness there, too- flecks of green, and a gray sheen so warm she felt it trickle down between her breasts, right down into the center of her chest.

“What are you afraid of?” he asked gently.

She was caught, captive in his hands, rooted to the earth by his gaze.

“I’m afraid-” she started, caught her breath, trembled. “I’m afraid of dying,” she admitted, “before I’ve gotten anything I want.”

 

Jon watched the wind tangle through her curls, silver strands fluttering with their own life. A ribbon twisted, caught in the breeze, folding over her lips and blocking her fine nose from view, so he plucked it away, tucked it behind her neck.

She was so young, he thought suddenly, the fact hitting him in a way it hadn’t before. Salt tears had dried on her cheeks, already pink from the wind.

He was young, too, he knew, only months older, but it felt different somehow- a reason he couldn’t place just then, but it filled him with sadness all the same.

“You don’t know that,” he shook his head.

Daenerys blinked, and he followed the sweep of her eyelashes. “I don’t?” she huffed at him.

He smiled at her slight pique. “No,” he said, “you don’t.”

She bit her lip, looked up at him curiously. She took a small step away from him, and he dropped his hands to his side once more at her plea for space.

“You have a purpose,” she said unexpectedly. “Since I’ve met you, it’s been clear to me you have a goal- to fight your enemies and save your people.” She peered up at him in question, so he nodded in answer.

“I thought I-” she tried to continue, but her throat visibly clogged, and she stopped, distressed.

He waited, biting his tongue painfully to keep himself from approaching her again.

She blinked rapidly, though he wished she wouldn’t, and took a fortifying breath.

“I’ve been-” she said thickly, “so stupid-”

“No,” Jon shook his head forcefully-

“You don’t know-  _ you don’t know,” _ she protested, gasped. “Illyrio Mopatis said the Targaryens were fair and just, beloved by the common people, unfairly butchered, the throne usurped, and I believed him. Viserys said our father and brother were good, honorable men, and that the Seven Kingdoms were ours by rights, two children outcast to foreign lands by their own people, and I believed him. Drogo said that he would give me the world for our son, and I believed him.” 

Jon’s heart pulsed painfully in his throat as he watched the tears crest and fall, her lovely face laid bare in her disillusionment. 

“I told myself it couldn’t all be for nothing- it couldn’t, it couldn’t! I told myself I would make them pay for my stolen childhood- the Baratheons, the Lannisters, the Starks, all those who took up arms against my father and stole my family from me. Why else would the gods have given me my dragons if not to take what is mine, if not for fire and blood, to make my enemies pay, to make them pay for what was taken from me?”

She bent her head and wept.

“But it was my father who was wrong,” she cried in terrible confusion, “not the Baratheons or the Starks, not even the Lannisters, I set one of them beside me- and me, most of all, I was wrong for believing that I was chosen for glory, for believing that I was meant to end my House in victory, to be remembered with fear and with love.”

Daenerys shook her head, looked up at him, tears dripping off the tip of her red nose.

“No one can love a dragon,” she said. “Dragons are for fire- and death.”

“Dany,” Jon whispered, a terrible pit of feeling curling in his stomach, “you are not meant for death,” he said, and, in another moment,  _ you are meant to be loved, _ he was going to say, but she continued-

“Why else?” she argued. “Why didn’t I die when I joined Drogo on the pyre? I’d accepted that I might. I’d loved him, after all- stupid girl- he was going to give me the world, but he died, and I thought to join him would not be a terrible end. But I didn’t,” Daenerys turned, reached out, clutched his elbow again, “the fire burned, and it hurt me, but it didn’t ruin me, it gave birth to my children- but why?” She looked up at him desperately. “Jon,  _ why?” _

She was asking him, Jon realized, truly asking him for an answer that she could understand.

Jon had a strange feeling of unreality in that moment- he’d pored over,  _ obsessed  _ over stories of Targaryen dragon riders in his childhood. He’d worshipped them, dreamed about them, pictured himself as Daeron the Brave, drank up the legends of Aegon the Conqueror and his beautiful warrior sister-wives.

But they were people, too, he realized then- same as him, same as Dany. She was the Mother of Dragons, the lost Targaryen Princess, a dragon rider, a conqueror- but she was Dany, and she was all alone.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I don’t know why I died but was brought back, either.” Her eyes widened slightly at this mention of his resurrection. He twisted his arm around hers, clutched her elbow in his fingers. “But it wasn’t just to wait for death to come again,” Jon realized this as he said it. “If I was meant to be dead, I would be- and so would you. But we’re not.”

Daenerys took a quick breath, licked her chapped lips. “The prophecy-” she started.

Jon shook his head. “Don’t,” he said. “You don’t know if it means you, or me, or anyone, or if it’s just words repeated so many times that it’s taken on a life of its own that it hasn’t earned.”

“But-” she looked down, wrestled with herself. “How... how have you seen them so many times, yet stand here telling me that death is not coming?”

“I didn’t say that,” he protested. “I said you don’t know- you don’t know when, or how, or why, and you certainly don’t know that you have suffered all you’ve suffered, raised dragons from stone eggs, set three armies behind you, just to go North and die in the fight.” He leaned back, his past trickling eerily forward. “You know... nothing,” he realized, laughed to himself.

He chuckled again at her offended glare. “It was not meant as an insult,” he said gently. “It was, in truth, meant as a comfort.”

Dany scowled at him. “A comfort?” she repeated. “How?”

“I’ve only just realized,” Jon admitted to himself. “Dany...” he wanted to explain something to her, but wasn’t sure how to start. He took a breath, looked back into her wide eyes.

“When I first... came back,” he checked that she understood what he was referring to, “I was- filled with bitterness, aimless- I’d never felt less like myself. I had failed in my purpose, murdered by my own men as a traitor... and yet I’d look back over my actions, and I couldn’t see where I had been wrong. If I could go back and fix my mistakes, I would- but I still felt, given the chance, I would have made the same choices and arrived at the very same end.” He stopped, swallowed, the resentment, the foul hatred of those days wrapping slimy fingers around his heart again. “It was- very difficult to come to terms with, that by being true to myself and fighting for the living, I was marked for death; any way I looked at it, I would have died, and it seemed to me that if I would have died no matter what I did, so long as I thought it was right, I should have stayed dead.”

The wind slapped his cloak around his ankles again, and he tugged another errant strand of hair from her face, coiling it neatly around the end of his fingers. “My sister Sansa came to me, asked my help to retake Winterfell, and that made things easier for awhile. It’s always easier to fight for someone you love than to set upon creating your own purpose for living- at least it has been for me,” Jon tilted his head at her curiously. “I suppose that’s another reason why Daenerys Targaryen is extraordinary.” She blinked up at him. “Who have you known, who have you had to love that has been worthy of you, whose cause has been worthy of your passion and your strength?” He pulled at the lock of her hair, shook his head sadly. “There has only been Daenerys, you told me that the first time we met.”

He had Sansa; he’d newly discovered that he would come home to Arya and Bran as well, but it was more than that- he had his father, and Robb, even Theon, Rickon for a few short years, he could even be grateful for Lady Catelyn now, for though she had never shown him any kindness, he had at least witnessed a mother’s love when she bestowed it upon her own children.

Who had Daenerys had? Not even the memory of parents- any attempt now to learn of her father’s history would only give her more heartbreak. No place to call home, not a single family member alive in the world except for her brother... a brother who plotted to sell her off for his own gain even before her body changed.

He thought of little Dany, then, pretty, sweet little Dany, trusting in her older brother to look out for her, unable to understand why she had been outcast from her home country, why her family had been murdered, traipsing away in the middle of the night from city to city, with no one true and honorable to love- no one to love her as she ought to be loved, without asking anything in return.

He felt immeasurably lonely at the thought, and found himself swallowing down a cold lump in his throat.

“And then the lords called me King,” Jon continued thickly, staring down at the white gold curls wound between his fingers. “I realized- all those years at the Wall, I was fighting upwards to get people to listen to me, to take the threat seriously, and here the lords were just giving me power I had never dreamt of or looked for. This was why the gods brought me back, I thought, and I couldn’t just turn from it, not when I had a real chance for the first time to prepare my people- to prepare everyone for what’s coming.” His lips curled in a mirthless smile. “I wasn’t happy about it, but at least it was a purpose.”

“You weren’t happy to be named King?” Daenerys asked. “Weren’t you at least- vindicated? Proud of their trust in you, gratified to have prevailed against your enemies?”

“No,” Jon shook his head. “They made me King for themselves, not for me- and I took it for them, not for me. They wanted someone to set above themselves- one of their own, yes, I don’t deny that was important to them- but winter is coming, and they crowned me to unburden themselves of some of the responsibility.” His brow wrinkled. “I’d never thought about it before- how Kings and Queens have no choice but to look down upon their people because their people raise them above themselves.” He met her eyes. “I suppose you understand what I mean.”

And here was another revelation: this coiling frustration, this disdain that he attempted to control but couldn’t entirely, this feeling of separation from his people- months it had been for him,  _ years  _ it had been for Daenerys.

She swallowed, thinking, and Jon was entranced by the movement of her soft white throat. His eyes travelled up the line of it, up to her mouth, her perfect pink lips, chapped and raw from the cold sea winds. He stared at her mouth, his mind, the winds, the dragons circling, the war council, the army of the dead, all quieting away until there was nothing left but a white buzz between his ears and a sugary-sweet warmth fizzing through his blood.

“Well,” he heard her say, her lovely mouth curving upward, “I am happy for you, then, to have been named King so you can lead the people against what’s coming, to have found your purpose again-”

“That’s the gods’ purpose for me,” Jon interrupted her, “it’s not mine.”

The buzzing grew louder, his heart slamming against his ribcage. The warmth sang through his veins, burning away all his uncertainty, all his fear. He dug his fingers gently into the hair at the nape of her neck, tilted her head back to see her better.

“What-” she whispered, eyes darting between his.

“Maybe my life had purpose before,” he told her, “but I’ve only recently discovered its meaning.” He nudged his thumb against her flushed cheek, so soft, wrapped his arm around her back and pressed her against him. “I’m alive because Daenerys Targaryen is alive, needing me to love her. And I do.”

Jon leaned down, brushed his mouth against hers. Her soft lips were-  _ gods- _ and her body in his arms- he bit back a groan.

He drew back slowly, and she followed him blindly, eyes closed. It was all the sign he needed- he clenched his hand in her hair and tugged at it, tilting her head back further, leaning over her to sip at her mouth.

Jon’s heart raced as he kissed her, and kissed her again. When Jon had been a boy at Winterfell, a crate of plums from the Summer Isles had arrived one day, a gift from his father’s friend King Robert, and he still remembered how sweet the fruit had tasted, how refreshing, but it wasn’t just the sweetness, it was the texture, how satisfying that first bite had been, so juicy, so plump- Dany’s mouth was ripe with all the sweetness of a summer plum for Jon, but the fruit was never finished, and he never stopped hungering for it.

He licked her bottom lip, sucked on it, tugged it between his teeth, let it free with a slick  _ ‘pop,’ _ sucked on it again. Her moans burned in his ears, little high-pitched mewls that snagged down his spine and tingled all the way to the tip of his cock. He snaked both hands down to her hips, yanked her against him, and groaned when she opened her mouth against his.

“We should-” she started, gasped. He pulled away slightly, pressed his forehead to hers, unable to tear his gaze from her mouth. “We have to stop,” she whispered, “anyone could see.”

Her eyes were glassy, her cheeks hot with color. Jon rather thought she didn’t know what she was saying, but he obliged her, looked back up at the castle, the empty windows, then grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the cliffside, further inland.

 

Dany tripped along behind him, her legs unsteady. Her stomach was a molten, coiling pit, and she trembled at the heat of it, her bones shaking, her skin snapping with warmth, sweat trickling down her shoulder blades to the base of her spine. Her reaction frightened her, her hand clammy, sliding against his.

_ The dragon does not- _ she tried to think, but couldn’t finish her thought, for he settled himself against the wall at the base of the castle and drew her to him again.

Jon crooked an ankle behind her calves, and she stumbled against him. His hands were- so warm- his mouth a welcoming beacon- a homecoming-

She slid bonelessly into his arms. He groaned again, pushed her mouth open with his, swiped at her tongue-

Dany trembled, so hot, so hot- the heat sizzled pleasantly through her tendons, melting her further, promising a welcome death and rebirth at his hands-

He pulled away, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide, stared down at her. Dany was undone, his to do with as he would- she prayed he would be gentle with her, she knew he would- her mouth felt bruised, her lips well-tended, redrawn, remade by his kisses-

Jon breathed hard, two red spots high on his cheeks. He grunted, pushed her against the wall, spread his fingers wide on her stomach, and kissed her again.

She moaned, high, needy, the sound foreign to her ears. Her nipples stood painfully against the thick fabric of her coat, and the warmth of his fingers pressing against her shot straight between her legs. She wished desperately that he would move his hand, force it up under her jacket, stroke her tender breast-

Dany realized suddenly, with the force of an icy cold wave, that if she didn’t stop this now, she was going to make a complete fool of herself for him, here, out in the open skies, under the winding stair of her birthplace.

“Stop,” she gasped, pushed her hands against his shoulders. He stepped back reluctantly, his hand sliding down to her hip.

She swallowed, her heart pounding in her ears.

“I can’t-” she whispered, tried desperately to force some order to her racing mind.

Jon leaned against the wall and waited.

“I have to go,” she decided.

“Alright,” he nodded.

She stared at him, wondered what she was supposed to do next.

He crooked a small smile at her, straightened her jacket, tugged a few errant strands of her hair back in place. His hand slid back into its favored spot against her cheek, fingers pressing gently against her neck.

“Goodnight,” Jon said and rubbed his thumb against her swollen lips.

Dany stepped away, not entirely sure where she was going. He leaned his back against the wall and watched her.

She turned and wobbled a few steps away.  _ The dragon does not run, _ she told herself.

She looked back over her shoulder, and the fervent look in his eyes fluttered right through her heart into her toes.

She turned tail and ran toward the stairs.

_ I am but a young girl, _ she thought to herself as she began to climb, covering her smile with her hand.


	6. The Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mid episode 7x07 "The Dragon and the Wolf." Jon struggles to keep an illicit thought under the surface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure I had more things to do this weekend than write 9K of Jonerys mush... I'm sure I did.
> 
> The last scene in this chapter was inspired by looking at [this incredible fanart](http://verkomy.tumblr.com/image/164683425103) for a far longer time than any person claiming to be sane should. (Maybe come back and look at it after you finish the chapter.)
> 
> Thank you all for your wonderful reviews, you really make my day with your words! Thank you for reading, and please comment if you enjoy!

There were some things that Jon didn’t let himself think about.

Some things- facts, memories, recurring nightmares- just weren’t worth dwelling on. They were what they were, and Jon wouldn’t change them by worrying at their frayed edges. He had gotten rather good at setting unproductive thoughts aside, casting his mind to matters that he could affect, plans to be made and choices to deliberate.

Other things, usually having to do with unpleasant feelings such as anger, confusion, frustration- how could, for example, one human have so little consideration or depth of understanding inside him to frivolously hack away at and mangle a whole family to butchered limbs, and leave the world without ever coming to terms with his own cruelty, his selfish actions? How could a woman grow a child inside her, feel him turn and move, his breaths in harmony with hers, bear the hours of sweat and agony to bring him into this world, and never once, not once, look into his eyes and greet the soul inside the son she created?-

-well, Jon had realized long ago that every hour spent brooding about such things was an hour of his life wasted, and as a man who had only recently been dead himself, he had become rather fond of using every waking minute he could to fight for the future.

Some things, though, he just wasn’t allowed to think about.

It wasn’t that it was wrong for him to think about it... but it wasn’t completely _right_ either.

It didn’t belong to him, he hadn’t earned it, and so, while it was beyond his power to get rid of it entirely, he set it aside, deep inside himself and tried not to bother with it.

It had been easier, before he had pressed his mouth to hers, before he had felt her body slide against his- and actually, it had been much easier the first few days after. Then, he had actual memories, real, tangible reminders of the heat of her wet tongue, the way her arms trembled when she clutched at his neck, the soft sighs that he could even now feel tingling in his ears.

Those- those were _true_ memories, they were facts, pure and simple, and he was allowed to think about them, because (somehow, incredibly) she had given them to him.

And he did- _think-_ about them.

As the days continued to pass since Jon had last felt Dany’s warm mouth open to his persistent kisses, he found himself thinking about them more and more.

The other, though- his dream- he had set that aside because it was one of those things he didn’t let himself think about-

-but he knew it was there, part of him always knew it was there, like a much-longed-for present wrapped up with a pretty little bow, shoved into the bottom of a trunk underneath layers and layers of dirty clothes, moldy old blankets, broken keepsakes- and when he opened the trunk, shuffled through the papers at the top, he would catch just the outline of it, hidden in the corner with the cobwebs and the shadows, and his skin would feel suddenly very warm, the top of his head doused in slippery hot oils, his heart racing.

He didn’t touch it, didn’t even look at it straight on, but every time he remembered that it was there, his stomach tingled and he found himself short of breath.

As the days edged toward a week since Jon had been able to find a moment alone with Daenerys, the dream grew and grew in the corner of the trunk in Jon’s mind, until it pushed aside all the other debris cluttering up his thoughts and rattled against the lock he had placed on it.

Jon was man enough to admit that he had known real terror in his life- when he was forced to confront with the probable demise of his family, for one, when he watched Rickon trip and fall, look back over his shoulder, and run across an empty field toward him, for another-

-but he’d never felt uneasy about his own mind before.

This was- this was-

This was something he was discovering that he couldn’t control, and he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that.

“My sister agreed to the meeting after all,” Lord Tyrion said presently. “She wouldn’t have done so if she didn’t think she could get something out of it.”

“To kill us all where we stand, most likely,” Jorah Mormont mused.

“I try not, as a rule, to be pessimistic,” Ser Davos said, “but at this time I must agree with Ser Jorah’s assessment.”

Lord Varys took a slight breath, stepped forward from the shadows in the corner. “Cersei Lannister is not an entirely rational creature, this is true,” he said. “However, I think one can generally count on her to value her own skin above all else, even vengeance.”

“Wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Clegane rasped from across the table. “Now that her whelps are all dead, there’s not a soul in seven hells can say what the bitch will do.”

“Yes,” Tyrion said, glancing up at him irritably, “the plan has certain- vulnerabilities, I admit, but we’re a bit past the point for changing courses-”

“I could always burn the Keep to the ground with her and all her attendants inside,” the Queen said. “I could go tonight.”

Jon watched the glance that passed between Tyrion and Varys, and felt a discomfiting chill ripple through his heart.

“I thought you wanted to save Westeros from more violence,” Lord Tyrion said, trying (and failing) to keep his voice light. “I thought you did not want to be Queen of the ashes-”

Daenerys looked down at him, her lip curling.

“I hate wasting time, my lord,” she said, a bite in her voice. “And there’s so little time left- to spend it on your vile sister-”

“Three days,” Tyrion protested. “This negotiation is costing us three days, and we may very well come out of it with another army to go North-”

 _“Don’t_ lie to me,” Daenerys hissed, teeth clenched. “You don’t believe there’s a chance in hell that Cersei will send her forces to our side.”

“It’s not likely, no,” Tyrion admitted, “but more impossible things have happened- I’ve seen them myself,” he pointed out, raising his hand to her in esteem.

Dany blinked, and Jon watched a deep pain bubble up to the surface, twisting her fair features. “When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east," she said bitterly. "When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves,” she turned to the window.

Tyrion glanced around the table, clearly at a loss.

“Perhaps it won’t come to that-” he started.

“The Queen is right,” Jon said.

Her head turned in profile to him. Their attendants shifted, eyes flicking to Jon.

“We’ve already sent word across the country that we’re going, so clearly we aren’t changing plans now,” he continued, and though Jon may not have consciously noted that he spoke for the party, it certainly did not go unnoticed by others in the room. “But it does feel a rotten waste of time when the best we can hope for is to leave no better than we arrived.”

“We have a wight,” Tyrion argued. “We are going to bring that thing out in the open; even if Cersei herself is unmoved, there will be others who will see, and word will spread-”

“I agree with you, Lord Tyrion,” Jon said. “It’s not a bad plan, and we certainly don’t have a better one. But we also don’t have time to wait for word to spread or for the wheels of power in the south to turn against Cersei Lannister. If we could- if there was some way we could skip all that, garner the southern forces to our side and go North tomorrow- well, it’s worth discussing, at least. Every day, the dead grow stronger, and every day that we, the living, do not march is another day we spend with our fears.”

Daenerys turned, studying him. Jon met her eyes eagerly. Days, it had been, since she looked him straight on, preferring instead to keep herself at a distance. He understood, did not begrudge her need for space in the midst of so much turmoil, so many changes to her plans, her vision for the future. But the unfinished conversation lingering between them did not help, it certainly did not help, Jon’s ever-more-tenuous grasp for control over his own mind.

“If I went tonight,” she said carefully, eyes flicking over his face, “if I took Drogon and Rhaegal and burned the castle to the ground,” in the corner, Sandor Clegane shifted irritably, “rid myself of Cersei and her followers while they slept, and in the morning demanded the Lannister forces follow me North, well, then, strictly speaking, we would have advanced our strategy far beyond the hopes we currently dither about.”

“It may be more difficult than you think to force cooperation from the Lannister army-” Tyrion protested, biting his tongue when Daenerys raised her hand at him, still looking at Jon.

“We would,” Jon agreed with her. “In normal times, in a long summer, I’d never advise or agree with such an action. Too many innocents stand in the cross-hairs, too many innocents to be sacrificed. But you know as well as anyone what it means to make hard choices- do those who will be saved at your hand outweigh those who will die?” He shook his head. “It’s not a choice I could make, but I can respect that there are merits to it.”

She stared at him, eyes narrowing. “Aegon burned King Harren and his sons at Harrenhal,” she said. “I am alive today because he did.”

“And they sing songs about it,” Jon said, “and no one is as feared or revered in all of Westeros as Aegon the Conqueror. But Aegon is in the past. Now is Daenerys Targaryen.”

Daenerys worked her jaw, moistened her lips. “What of the songs they will sing of me?” she returned. “Am I to be a hero to some, a monster to others? What of-” her lips pursed, deliberated over her next word, “-our future?”

Jon’s skin grew warm, the locked trunk rattling around in his head. He swallowed. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose there is always a hope for the future to think about.”

The silence stretched, taut and golden, between them.

Daenerys blinked.

“As you say, my lord,” she said, turning back to their counselors. “We have given our word that we will suspend violence for the parley, and we will not go back on it.”

Tyrion’s sigh of relief drew Jon’s notice. “If there _were_ a possibility of gaining the Lannister army without violence,” Jon continued, looking across the table at the dwarf, “I should expect it be pursued with all the cunning at our disposal.”

Tyrion attempted, somewhat vainly, not to bristle. “Of course, my lord,” he bowed stiffly, “that need not be said-”

“It’s good to say it all the same,” Daenerys cut him off. Tyrion’s eyes flicked up at her.

“Your Grace,” he nodded.

“In the meantime, we should prepare for the journey North,” Jon said. “Ready the fleet we have left to sail for White Harbor,” he glanced at Theon, hunched over one end of the table next to Lord Varys, “and prepare the Dothraki for the ride ahead.”

“Grey Worm readies the Unsullied,” Grey Worm announced solemnly. “The Unsullied will man the ships after meeting at the Dragonpit.”

 _“Lekh dothraki hethkat dothrakh al khal's os?”_ Daenerys asked her bloodrider.

 _“Kisha hethkat gwe oskikh, khaleesi,”_ the Dothraki returned.

 _“Davra,”_ she said, and turned to the others. “Good,” she repeated in the Common Tongue, “I want to head North in three days. I will not waste one more hour than necessary on King’s Landing. Grey Worm,” she nodded. The soldier bowed, then stalked out of the room to his duties. “Kovarro,” she turned to her bloodrider with a small smile. He nodded and left behind the Unsullied.

“My lord,” Daenerys spoke to Theon, who met her gaze without lifting his head. “I trust there have been no problems with the wight?”

Theon shook his head, eyes turning to Sandor Clegane. “The box is bolted fast,” he said, “and this one keeps a near-constant guard on it, Your Grace.”

She looked at Clegane curiously. “You have my thanks, my lord,” she said politely.

“Don’t need your thanks,” the man grunted, rather rudely in Jon’s estimation. “I’d rather stick my sword in its dead ugly face and be done with it,” he seemed then to notice a bristling toward him from both Ser Jorah Mormont and the Bastard King in the North, “Your Grace,” he finished a bit lamely.

Daenerys' eyes travelled up and down the hulking mass of him, and he shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

“You are not to destroy the creature before we reach King’s Landing,” she said mildly. “Should this whole mess come to nothing, I will be very put out.” He snorted at that. Dany raised an eyebrow. “Keep it safe until the meeting, and then keep us safe from it, and you shall have my thanks, whether you need them or not, my lord.”

“I’m not a lord-” he said, then caught himself, looked rather as though he wished he could have remained silent.

Daenerys sighed, placed her hands wearily upon the table. “If we survive the coming wars, I have no intention of allowing the monster who murdered my niece and nephew as babes to live,” she told him. “Clegane Keep will need a lord with heirs, as will many great Houses when the spring comes again.” Her eyes flicked, unbidden, to Jon, so quick he almost missed it. “That will be all, my lord,” she said pointedly, and Clegane bowed awkwardly, then left, Theon at his heels.

“Ser Jorah, how long did it take us to ride from Vaes Dothrak to Meereen?” she asked.

“Which time, Your Grace?” Jorah returned.

Daenerys smirked, caught the old knight’s eye. “The second time,” she said. “The first was a bit more convoluted.”

“Perhaps,” he smiled, “but no less glorious.”

Jon watched the exchange with no small amount of interest, and an unexpected tickle of envy. He set it aside as unnecessary, but wondered at himself all the same. Jealousy! When was the last time he had experienced the feeling? He couldn’t remember being jealous of anything since the first time he went past the Wall, but he suddenly recalled how close a companion the feeling had been to him as a boy at Winterfell.

“Twelve days, I believe,” Ser Jorah answered his Queen. “I’d never seen the Dothraki ride so hard as they did for you and Drogon.”

“We had fair weather then,” Daenerys mused. “How much farther do we have to ride to Winterfell?” she asked.

“It might be reached in three weeks,” Jorah said, glancing across the table to Jon. “The winds will likely carry your ships North ahead of the Dothraki.”

Daenerys sighed again, frustrated. “The Unsullied and the Dothraki go North because of me,” she said. “We should arrive together.”

“The Dothraki could ride through the Vale for White Harbor,” Jon suggested. “The East has pledged for House Stark.”

“The East’s pledge has come through Lord Petyr Baelish,” Lord Varys pointed out, folding his hands. “There is not a man in the realm less to be trusted.”

“I am aware of Littlefinger’s character,” Jon said. “The East’s loyalty is not to Lord Baelish, but to my sister, Sansa Stark.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, surprised. “The East has remained neutral throughout all the bloodshed of the past five years,” he said. “They declined to join your brother Robb’s cause. Why should they take up arms for a girl who is both a Lannister and a Bolton now through marriage?”

Jon looked down at the table and breathed through his nose. _Keep hold,_ he ordered himself, _do not lose your temper._ The anger licked, hot and lighting-fast, up his chest, charring his throat.

“Because names will never be as important as actions,” Daenerys said unexpectedly. He glanced up at her, and she gave him a small smile in return. “I thought the Qartheen Spice King would give me his ships because I was a Targaryen, but what did I have besides my name? A starving khalasar steps away from death and three little dragons smaller than dogs.” She raised her eyebrow at Jon, leaned in conspiratorially. “You will be surprised to learn that he did _not_ give me his ships.”

His smile answered hers, and he felt his ire drain away, his mind clearing.

“I’m not sure why the East loves Sansa so, but they do,” Jon told Tyrion. “Perhaps because she puts them in mind of a better, smarter, more beautiful version of their late Lady, her aunt. They rode to the battle for Winterfell for Sansa, not for me, and they will continue to fight behind her, I am confident of that.”

“Then nothing more need be said,” the Queen decided. “Ser Jorah, please discuss this change of plans with my khalasar.”

“Khaleesi,” he answered and took his leave.

“Your Grace,” Missandei said softly, stepping up to her side to speak in her ear. Jon heard only snatches of what she said, but it made no matter for she spoke Valyrian, and Jon could no better understand the foreign tongue than he could the crows calling to each other in the night.

 _“Konir sagon daor bēvilagon,”_ Daenerys returned sternly at one point, appearing less than grateful for her counselor’s advice.

Missandei did not back down, to Jon’s slight surprise, but continued to speak, her voice growing firmer and crisper. Jon could not fail to notice that her eyes turned to him several times, though Daenerys stared stubbornly down at the table.

 _“-issa litse, syt se Dothraki, syt se_ Dovaogēdy _,”_ the girl finished, emphasizing the last word, and stepped back, apparently satisfied that she had made her point.

Dany’s fingernails trailed along the Northern mountains, far past the Wall on her ancestor’s map. They waited while she deliberated, the fire crackling behind her.

 _“Kirimvose, raqiros,”_ she said finally over her shoulder. Missandei nodded.

Daenerys took a deep breath, then pinned Jon with an imperious look.

“Jon Snow,” she started, and then, “King in the North,” Jon’s brow furrowed in confusion, but she continued before he could correct her. “My Dothraki and my Unsullied have travelled a great distance to follow me to Westeros, a journey such as never been undertaken before, and now we ask them to go even further, to the North to aid in your battle against the dead.” She waited a beat, and Jon nodded his acknowledgement. “Does it not make sense, then, for the North and the East’s forces to meet us at White Harbor, particularly as we saw the army of the dead just beyond Eastwatch not two weeks ago?”

Jon blinked. “I suppose,” he answered, tamping down his own personal disappointment at the prospect of not returning, once again, to Winterfell.

“And will they?” Daenerys asked.

“I rather thought,” Jon started unwillingly, “that we would use the forces to man the Wall, bring every castle back to life to protect the realm-”

“Did it appear to you that the Night King was spreading his forces in multiple, disconnected attempts to breach the Wall?” Daenerys asked pointedly. “Or was he assembling his dead followers in a single, concentrated army to march South with once he finds a way through, most likely near Eastwatch?”

“He was,” Jon admitted.

“I ask again,” Daenerys lifted her chin, “will the Northern and Eastern armies meet us at White Harbor?”

Jon sighed. “I will write my sister tonight,” he said.

“Good,” Dany said, to Jon’s eyes appearing more uncomfortable than he had ever seen her. “Then I shall take my leave. Good night, my lords,” she said, nodding in turn to Tyrion, Varys and Ser Davos behind him. “May the gods look upon us with favor on the morrow.”

She turned and swept out of the room, Missandei close behind, without sparing him a second glance.

Jon stood stock-still, his mind clicking through the past few moments, before he found himself stalking through the door behind her.

“My lords,” he heard Ser Davos bid the others, clipping along hurriedly at his heels.

They were at the end of the hall, about to turn up the winding stair Jon knew led to her chambers.

“Daenerys,” he called without thinking. Ser Davos cleared his throat behind him. “Your Grace,” Jon amended quickly.

She stopped, one boot upon the step. Jon wondered if she was pondering her ability to escape.

She turned, both feet beneath her on the hall. “My lord, Ser Davos,” she greeted them with equanimity.

Jon halted five yards away. Part of him felt rather foolish, the other, larger part did not care in the slightest.

“I hoped to speak to you,” he said.

“Of course,” Dany widened her eyes at him in a warning that Jon ignored.

“Alone,” he clarified.

He watched her consider this for a moment before her shoulders hunched in defeat and she waved Missandei down the hall toward Ser Davos. The girl’s eyes slid up to meet his as she passed, an odd smile playing on her lips.

Daenerys turned and disappeared up the stair.

Jon scrambled down the hallway and up the steps after her. His blood surged frighteningly, his head light, and he tore his eyes away from the sight of her hips swaying ahead of him, looking instead at her little feet.

She stopped after they had circled a few turns up, and crossed her arms, looking down on him.

He stood two steps down, and completely forgot his purpose when he lifted his eyes and caught sight of her, crowded on the darkened stair with him, torchlight flickering from the next alcove up, shadows sliding cool and comfortable around them.

“Dany,” he started, his voice hushed, and her arms loosened, falling back to her sides.

She looked like she wanted to say something, but she bit her tongue and stayed silent.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Jon hadn’t meant to say it, but the hurt, the uncertainty coiled up from his heart before he could stop it.

She set her gaze fixedly upon the direwolf at his chest. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Why?” he wanted to know. “Do you not want-” he stopped, unable to finish the hateful thought.

“No,” she shook her head vigorously. “It’s not- Jon- I can’t,” she set her hand upon his shoulder, and Jon felt his body unwinding, his soul grasping upward, needy for her.

“Why not?” he demanded, a desperation he didn’t recognize clawing up inside himself.

“Jon,” she said, exasperation tinging her beloved voice. “We’re going to King’s Landing tomorrow,” she looked down at him, shook her head when he didn’t respond as she expected. “King’s Landing, Jon!” Dany stood up straight, looking dreamily over his head. Jon ghosted his hand up the side of her leg to her hip. “The seat where my family ruled for three centuries, to the Dragonpit, where my children’s cousins played and lived. I thought of such a day for years, hoped for it, dreamed of it- and now it’s here, but I don’t come for victory.” She sighed. “I come for a truce, knowing I may never return.”

“Don’t see why you’d want to,” Jon said candidly. He shrugged when she looked at him in consternation. “I hear it’s a shithole.”

“Jon!” she protested, huffing a laugh in spite of herself. “That is quite besides the point.”

“Why should it be?” Jon wrinkled his brow. “You’ve been so many places, Dany, seen so much of the world- the very best cities on the planet- Braavos, Pentos, Qarth. Dragonstone, this spot we stand right now,” he stretched his luck and pushed her hip playfully, “is the farthest South I’ve ever been. I’d only ever been to Winterfell, the Wall, and beyond the Wall before coming here, and this is a pretty nice place, all things considering,” he smiled up at her, and watched her soften, her head tilting toward him, her curls sliding down her arm.

“Maybe tomorrow you’ll find King’s Landing everything you hoped it would be,” he said, “or maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll come North and see Winterfell and decide it’s the best place you’ve ever been.”

“Jon,” she said softly, reluctantly, but Jon pushed on.

“I’m just saying,” he continued, “you’re the most powerful, the most beautiful woman in the world. Why should you lock yourself in an ugly place like King’s Landing if it turns out you hate it?”

Dany swallowed. “I won’t hate it,” she said stubbornly, a slight tremor in her voice.

“You might,” Jon said mulishly.

“Jon,” she sighed, set her shoulders. “I can’t do this right now,” she took her hand from his arm, drew herself inward.

“When?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she cried, controlled herself. “After.”

“After what?” Jon demanded, bitterness crawling, unbidden, into his voice. “After the war?”

“No!” she returned, huffed at herself. “After- after the Dragonpit, alright?” she placed her hand upon his cheek, and Jon turned into it unconsciously. She paused a moment, then stroked her thumb across his chin. “You’ll find me?”

“Yes,” he promised, and gathered her to him, crossed his arms against her back, set his head against her breast.

“Jon-” she stiffened-

“Just this,” he said, “nothing else.”

They stood there a moment, still, poised, and Jon closed his eyes against her softness until he felt her melt against him, her fingers tightening around his neck, the warmth of her seeping into his bones, his heartbeat lulling.

Dany’s fingers played in his hair, her palm brushing against his ear. His eyelids fluttered at the feeling.

He felt her breath rising and falling in her breast, the comforting strum of her heart against his cheek.

Her hand smoothed the hair down the side of his head, once, twice, and again. Jon wondered if this was what it felt like when a mother comforted her child- how Dany would be with her own-

The dream was out of the trunk now, the trunk was nowhere to be found, the lock missing, the dream seeping down down from the hidden depths of his mind, trickling down his neck, slippery warm in his chest, curling curling squeezing at his heart-

Jon turned and pressed his nose against her breast, inhaling deeply. Her scent travelled from his nose through his limbs, right through to the tips of his fingers and his toes, crowding out every other pesky thought and feeling. _Sweat, and grass, and-_

 _-plums,_ he thought.

His heartbeat picked up again, splashing at his throat.

“Go now,” she whispered, scratching at his beard.

He lifted his head drunkenly from her chest and blinked up at her.

Dany stood, arrested, staring back down at him.

She brushed her thumb against his bottom lip, pulling it briefly from his teeth.

He felt her gasp in his arms, then pull herself away, watched her turn and scurry up the stairs.

Jon stared at the spot where she’d stood, his heart still racing, before he turned unwillingly and descended back to the hallway.

He nodded curtly at Missandei, informed Ser Davos he was retiring early to attend to his correspondence and prepare for the next day’s meeting. He clipped down another set of stairs, turned another hallway, finding his way blindly through the castle.

How sweet, how calm he had felt just moments ago- stripped, now, the peace of his mind returning to tattered pieces. He felt the tension wind again up his spine, his back stiff, his shoulders sore. He pushed through the door to his chambers and collapsed in the chair behind his desk, staring unseeingly at the empty fireplace.

He almost (did he?) wished he hadn’t followed her when she left the small council. Surely he felt no worse than he had all week, tense, coiled, like waiting for a battle that never came. But now, to have set all that aside for a few precious moments, his mind blessedly clear while she stroked his hair and he held her close... He was more frustrated now than he had been in months.

 _Gratitude,_ Jon remembered, _gratitude for the dawn will walk with you through the long night._

After the Dragonpit, she’d said. He leaned his elbows upon the table, folded his hands against his eyes like a prayer.

 _Patience, Jon,_ he counselled himself, then turned to whatever gods might be out there, listening, interested for some reason in hearing what he had to say. _Please,_ he prayed, _let me be strong and true. Let me not forget my purpose, help me to control my own mind. I must be clear-headed, focused- and sane,_ he added wryly. _Please,_ he continued, _I want to serve my purpose in the coming war, to save the people of Westeros, I want- I want-_

 _-I want my future,_ he bowed his head, sending up his final plea to the gods above.

The dream had seeped into his every pore and fiber, and Jon knew this, at least, was a losing battle. He’d asked the gods to take it away, but they hadn’t seen fit to, so perhaps Jon could surrender now, set down his arms without too much guilt, knowing he’d fought the good fight, but his opponent was simply too formidable, its weapons too potent, its hooks set too deep for him to overcome.

Jon’s eyes opened and fell upon a new scroll on the corner of his desk, a return letter from Winterfell, his father’s sigil pressed in the wax. He straightened and snatched it up eagerly, breaking the seal and unwinding it with his fingers.

 _Dear brother,_ it read,

_I am grateful to hear that Daenerys Targaryen has joined our cause. The lords will be leery of her and her foreign armies, but Bran grows more withdrawn and anxious every day, and I know what that means. Do you march after the meeting at King’s Landing? I will remain hopeful that you do; you have been gone too long, Your Grace._

_I have sent Brienne of Tarth and her squire to treat with you in my place. There was never any question of my going, but I must confess, I felt a tickle of glee at Queen Cersei’s expectation that I return. Perhaps she has gone mad as they say; use this, Jon, use any weakness you can find against her._

_Arya told me to write you that she will never forgive you if you die in the war before she has a chance to see you again. She says she expects you to have dragons with you the next time you meet._

_Bran, also, wishes to speak to you._

_I wonder if you’ve considered an alternate arrangement to bending the knee for the Dragon Queen? I know she is very powerful and that we need her help, but I fear the lords will be difficult to come around to this news. Their pride has grown troublesome, and they are wary of any slight, real or imagined, to the North’s honor._

_Our father never expected to lead or to marry for duty, but circumstances set him on that path, so he walked it bravely. I see so much of him in you, Jon, and I wonder if you’ve thought how different your life could be from what you grew up believing it would be._

_Consider joining our House and our family with the Targaryen Queen. Think how much stronger the alliance would be then! The Northern lords could find no offense in such an action, and after the war is over-_

_I suppose it doesn’t do much good to think about that at the moment. I’ll leave off now as my small council is gathering. Do think about it, Jon, and try to come to the right answer by the time you reach the North._

_Your sister,_

_Sansa Stark_

Jon leaned back in his chair and bit back a groan.

The gods were laughing at him, he decided.

Think about it! Sansa urged him to think about it, and here he had been the past two weeks, doing everything in his power _not_ to think about it.

He lifted his eyes to the top of her missive and read it again. Bran was uneasy, so the Night King’s plans must be moving forward. Well, he had thought as much, but they’d needed to amass their strength and couldn’t go North until they did. He smiled at Arya’s message, imagined her face when she saw the great beasts winging overhead.

He skimmed the bottom, felt his skin heat, then wound it back up hurriedly and set it away from himself.

He dashed a quick response indicating the change of plans to meet at White Harbor, sent the bird on its way, and undressed for bed.

He lay stiffly underneath the covers, rolled on his side, squeezed his eyes shut, bit his tongue, and shifted irritably onto his back again.

Two weeks, Jon thought to himself ruefully. Two weeks since he had decided he was in love with her- one week since he had tasted her mouth against his- and already he had lost his mind.

He settled back onto his pillow, took a deep breath, and surrendered to the gentle memory of his dream.

The girl sat next to him, shoulders hunched, staring glumly at the floor. Her little slippered foot slid across the cold stone, trudging up a line of dirt and drawing circles in it. He watched her give a great sigh, her shoulders rising and falling dramatically, her brown curls shaking with the force of it.

 _Arya,_ he thought at first, hiding his smile, but she turned to him then, glared at him with a furrowed brow, and the tip of her nose was too round to be Arya’s, her eyes too light-

His heart skipped.

“You don’t understand!” the girl moaned piteously. “He’s too good, and too kind, and too- too- perfect at everything! It’s not fair,” and though she sniffed haughtily, tried to bury her feelings inside, Jon saw real pain rising up from her tender heart to the tears in her eyes. “How can I ever compare, how can I hope to compete with that?”

“You’re not supposed to compete with him,” Jon told her. “He’s your brother, you’re supposed to love him.”

She huffed, crossed her arms. “Well, of course I _love_ him,” she said, very begrudgingly. “How can I not? How can’t anyone? It’s very annoying.”

Jon chuckled. “People can’t help loving you, either,” he reminded her. “Why, I can’t hope to pass within fifty yards of the armory without the master at arms finding me to talk my ear off about the progress of his most beloved pupil.” She brightened visibly, her heels clicking against the legs of her chair, and he tugged at a curl winding just below her chin. _“That’s_ rather annoying; I’m a busy man, you know, can’t be wasting time chattering about some little sprout with a bow and arrow.”

She squawked in outrage. “I’m better than half your bannermen!” she protested. Jon laughed but nodded in acknowledgement.

“I was often jealous of my brother,” he confessed to her, and she settled down, looking up at him with wide eyes. “Your uncle, Robb.” He sighed, remembered. “He was better than me at everything, and he had the nerve to be kind, and warm, and funny, too. I couldn’t help loving him, and part of me hated him for that.”

Jon looked at her sternly. “That was my weakness, not his, and I paid for it by never once greeting him with a whole heart, never truly appreciating the soul within him while he lived. Don’t waste time, my heart,” he urged her, “don’t waste time with pettiness or little feelings, because you never have as much time as you think you do, no matter how much I’d like to give you a limitless supply.”

She blinked up at him, nodded solemnly.

Jon wrapped his arm around her little shoulder, pressed her face against his chest. She clutched at his arms and took a shaky breath.

“I don’t want you to be your brother,” he said. “I want you to be my little girl.”

“Alright,” she decided, her voice muffled against his cloak.

“And you’ve remembered what I told you?” he checked with her, nudging her side. “About helping your mother?”

“Yes,” she responded dutifully, and Jon could almost hear the roll of her eyes.

“Good,” he said, “because it’s important we take care of her these next few months and don’t give her any extra burdens-”

“Mother would _not_ like to hear you saying these things,” she told him snootily, pulling back and giving him a look.

“No, I don’t suppose she would,” Jon admitted. “But we take care of those we love, whether they think they need it or not.”

“Like Mother says we’re to do for you after the baby comes,” she glanced up at him slyly.

“What?” Jon spluttered, stopped in his tracks.

“Mhmm,” the girl nodded cheekily. “She said you were a complete disaster the first few weeks after we came, didn’t know up from down and made a scattered mess of every plan you tried to undertake.”

“That’s not-” Jon tried feebly to defend himself.

“Yes,” she said decisively, “she said she thought she was going to have to send you to the Summer Isles to get her a case of plums just to get you out of her hair.”

“Your mother’s a talker,” Jon said darkly.

“Don’t worry, Father,” she patted his hand, “I’ll take care of Mother before the baby comes,” she set her feet on the ground and pulled herself up to her full (tiny) height, “and you, after!” She skipped out of the room, giggling.

He sat, staring at the small fire crackling in the corner. A great wave of mirth bubbled up inside him, and he felt his shoulders loosening with it, his stomach growing warm. He laughed to himself, pressed his hand to his mouth, shook his head. His smile stretched his cheeks, his jaw taut with glee.

He picked himself up from the bench and crossed to a door on the opposite side of the room.

The door creaked open, a welcoming sound, and he closed it with a snap behind him.

This room could have been his father’s solar at Winterfell, or a warm corner of the dusty library at Dragonstone, or his cramped study at Castle Black. It didn’t matter where the room was, all that mattered was what it held inside.

Daenerys sat, stretched upon her chaise lounge, pushed up against the open window, one elbow propped against the sill. She turned her head upon her hand when she heard the door close, her silvery curls gliding down her back, tinkling in the moonlight. She lifted her arm across the void between them, reaching for him.

He crossed the room with swift steps and took her fingers, sliding into place beside her. She wrapped their entwined hands around her waist and pressed her lips to his forehead before turning back to the window.

“Did you know the moon is a goddess?” she asked dreamily.

He poked his nose against her neck, and she wiggled in protest.

“I did not know that,” he answered.

“Mmm, yes,” she nodded. “The moon watches over all the little children before they enter this world. She doesn’t want to turn her back on any of them, but sometimes she must, to look over the children on the other side of the planet. But still, she counts down the months till their arrival with her turns.” Dany brushed her finger down the back of his hand. “One, two, three, four, five, six.”

“Three to go,” Jon said.

He saw the edge of her smile curl her fine cheek as she looked up at the white orb hanging in the night sky.

“How is our little warrior princess?” she asked, shifting against the arm of the couch to face him.

He huffed a breath. “I think she’ll live,” he told her. “Her heart is not too deeply broken.”

“Her heart was broken?” Dany blinked at him.

“Yes,” Jon said wryly, “her brother is more popular than her, you see.”

“Ah,” she leaned back, pressed her palm entwined with his against her swollen middle. “Well, he could be a bit more sensitive and stop lording his travels over her head.”

“Oh, he’s not lording about,” Jon defended his son. “He’s just excited and eager to tell anyone who will listen.”

“Yes, but,” Dany lifted her head, eyes widening in distress, “it’s not becoming for him to be so self-centered in his speech. I know he’s warm and talkative, but he’s already caused irritation to his sister, who is, I grant you, not the most patient bird in the sky, and, well, he should be more thoughtful of the impression he gives-”

“Alright,” Jon said soothingly, “I’ll talk to him.” He waited to see if she would continue to fret, but she relaxed back into the lounge, pressed her palm against his cheek, guided him down to lay upon her chest.

“Thank you, Jon,” she said, trailing her fingers through his hair.

He closed his eyes, shifted himself carefully against the back of the couch to keep the bulk of his weight off her, and spread his fingers wide over the swell of her belly.

“I love you,” he murmured against her skin, the neckline of her dress loose and open.

“Me, or the baby?” she tugged at his ear.

“Yes,” he said.

She huffed a laugh, tapped his nose.

“Will he be warm and funny like his brother, do you think?” she asked.

“Mm,” he agreed. “She’ll be smart and tough like her sister.”

“Strong and faithful, like his father,” she slid her finger around the rim of his ear.

“Passionate and lovely, like her mother,” he said.

They laid there until the moon finished its path across the sky, the stars growing brighter, little pinpricks of hopes and dreams. Jon amended his breaths to cycle with hers, and felt the life pass between them, his energy, his spirit seeping into her for their child, seeping down from his heart through his hand on her belly.

 _Be strong, little one,_ he thought. _I’ll wait for you._

He had woken from this dream with tears in his eyes.

The ship had creaked around him, rays of stormy sunlight filtering through the windows. Jon had looked around in confusion before reality returned to him- the disaster beyond the Wall, Thoros of Myr, the dragon crashing, screaming, back to earth, Uncle Benjen, Daenerys’ pain, her grief.

He’d squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his hands against them, and clutched vainly at the bright strands of his dream blowing away in the wind.

She had been- so beautiful, he thought. He’d always thought she was beautiful, from the first moment he saw her, through his wariness and awkwardness, her beauty was a separate, immovable fact, one that shouldn’t have wound its way so tightly around him as it did.

But in the dream, she had been something else entirely. A whole other plane of beauty that Jon hadn’t had any idea existed. Healthy, and happy, and loving, and _loved,_ her belly round with promise, her soft breasts full with comfort and warmth.

Jon had clenched his hands into fists against his forehead and moaned.

Shame struck him, then, when he realized the utter inappropriateness of his thoughts.

She’d just lost a child- on top of that, she’d just confessed to him that she couldn’t _have_ children- and here he was, dreaming about-

She wasn’t even _his,_ Jon berated himself.

He’d spent every single day of the past two months stridently holding himself back from her, keeping himself removed, distant, because the timing simply couldn’t have been worse, and there were more important things to be thinking about, weren’t there? The future of the country, the hope for another spring for all mankind- those were more important than a single, solitary other person, weren’t they? A woman so beautiful his eyes hurt trying not to look at her, a girl strong and determined, passionate and fierce, a lost soul all alone in the world without a companion to turn to, to lay bare her weaknesses, the desires of her heart, with trust that he would help her, protect her, love her?

It was, in the end, another losing battle for Jon, which he came to accept when dragons flew North of the Wall and burned the army of the dead where they stood. He’d thought he’d met his final end, the real one, and led a band of warriors on a fool’s errand to their deaths, when the Targaryen princess, his Queen, Dany plucked him from the brink and saved his life.

But there were many who loved her, or loved the idea of her, and Jon couldn’t know if the passionate turn of his mind would be welcomed.

Furthermore, the dream was simply a thousand leagues ahead of itself, and Jon cringed inwardly at the presumption of his subconscious thoughts.

So he set it aside, locked it away, and wished that he could get rid of it entirely.

He wasn’t comfortable having it inside him... but, he realized now, staring up at the ceiling the night before the Dragonpit, it _was_ inside him, and therefore, it was a part of him.

It had continued to grow brighter and more persistent in the past few days, and though he hadn’t allowed himself to look at it straight on until just now, Jon found himself wondering if it were possible- if perhaps she was mistaken-

Jon shook his head, sighed, turned on his front.

It was just a dream, he told himself, and since he’d already succumbed to it once tonight, there couldn’t be additional harm if he succumbed to it again.

The little girl huffed an aggrieved breath, brown curls shaking at her hardship. Jon pressed his smile into the pillow.

 

He forced himself to wait a whole hour after they returned from King’s Landing before he set off in search of her.

He checked the small council chambers- no one but Lord Tyrion looking morosely down into his wine cup.

Jon gave his apologies and turned on his heel before Tyrion could offer him a glass.

She wasn’t in the hallway outside, or waiting for him in the stairwell. He took a few hesitant steps up but noticed the torches were cold, dark, and concluded she wasn’t in her chambers, either.

He paced the throne room, stepped out on the balcony overlooking the great winding stair down to the cliffs. The wind snapped against his cheek, icy fingers fluttering through his hair. He set his hands upon the railing, stared down at his white knuckles.

He took a deep breath, shook loose his shoulders. His heart was already racing, his stomach tight with nerves.

 _Stay calm,_ he commanded himself,  _or you’ll frighten her away. No need to-_

He caught sight of her on the cliffs where her dragons preferred to rest, a silver figure small against the might and bulk of her child.

Jon pushed off from the railing and clipped down the stairs, hands shaking.

She must have heard his boots on the steps, for she looked up over her shoulder at him, before turning back to lean in close to her dragon. The beast eyed him when he turned the railing and crossed the open field toward them.

He could have sworn that Drogon gave his mother a look tinged with mischief before he spread his wings and sailed off the cliffside to turn about the open air.

Daenerys glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, but stood stubbornly facing the seas.

Jon stepped up behind her, set his hands on her little waist, and pulled her against him, pushing his nose into her crown of braids.

She stiffened in surprise at first, but relaxed against him, hands coming up to rest on his.

That smell, her scent, it wound up from her hair to his nose, and his hands reflexively squeezed at her waist. Closer- he wanted her much-

He ran his hand up her side, pushed her long hair off one shoulder and twisted it carefully around the other. Jon clutched her shoulder, nudged his thumb along delicate line of her neck, and watched, entranced, when she tilted her head to the side in response, set her crown of braids on his chest.

It wasn’t a choice, not a conscious one anyway, it was simply something that needed doing, her soft neck bared to the elements, her head resting, calm and trusting, against him- the gods would be disappointed if he didn’t do it; worse, he would be; worst of all, she would be.

He set his lips upon the joining of her neck and shoulder, felt her still, stiffen, tremble in his arms. He sighed, wrapped his arms more fully around her and kissed her again, and again, up her throat to her chin to her lush, perfect mouth.

She turned into his kiss more passionately than he expected, fingers clutching at his neck, and he felt his knees weaken, his breath escaping him.

 _No time for that,_ he told himself sternly, heart hammering in his ears, and shifted his feet to a sturdier distance, tightening his hold on her, returning her passion with all the frustration, buried hopes, secret desires, uncertainty and grief, all the love he held for her in his heart, drawing now out of him and into her through this embrace.

Dany moaned, her hand sliding down from his cheek to his arm, which she wrapped her fingers around and squeezed, nipping at his chin with an open mouth.

He pulled her closer against him, one hand sliding back into her hair to place her head just so- so he could kiss her, and press her against him, and move his other hand up and down her body, desperate, needy.

Jon burned.

She was so small and firm in his arms. The swell of her bottom pressed up against him alluringly, her stomach taut under his hand, jumping with stolen breaths. Jon’s mind whirled with sensation, her smell, the sight of her lips, wet, red and swollen once more, her soft whimpers in response to his kisses, and, overwhelmingly, the press of her body against his.

Jon became aware of a drum beat thrumming through this encounter, growing louder and louder as he continued to nip at her mouth, hands roaming over her body. He realized distantly that it was his heart pulsing in every nerve, muscle and vein in his body, from his head to his toes. He couldn’t have said where he was at that moment. He couldn’t have said _who_ he was.

His fingers scrabbled at her waist, finding an opening, a pathway through the fabric between him and her skin. He pushed his hand up inside her jacket with great relief, pausing when he held the full weight of her breast.

She gasped against his mouth, loosening bonelessly, her head falling back in his hand. He shifted her in front of him again, his mind clearing somewhat for the first time since he’d pressed his nose in her hair.

She wore a shift beneath her jacket, some silky garment that slid between his fingers when he caressed them against her. He pulled it down impatiently, cradled his hand around her naked tit.

Jon looked down at her front, his fingers roaming illicitly under her sheath. His breaths were loud to his ears, harsh, uneven, but he felt his heart slowing, the terrible, relentless desire that had pulsed through him simmering down into a calming, nourishing buzz.

Her naked breast was warm in his hand, maddeningly comforting.

He pushed his other hand up to join the first, pulled her undergarment aside, and brushed his fingers against both of her breasts.

They were so soft, he marvelled, full, round and perfect. He weighed them in his hands, rubbed his thumbs across her nipples.

She shivered against him, eyes closed, mouth open.

He looked in fascination from her face bare with pleasure, to the outline of his hands on her chest underneath her jacket.

His mind was blessedly clear now, the burning heat in his veins cooling to a sweet, comforting warmth. He wrapped his fingers more firmly against her flesh and tugged at her pebbling nipples.

She moaned, her head thrown back against him. He looked down at her pink cheeks, her brow furrowed in concentration, and felt an overwhelming depth of tenderness open up inside him.

“Dany,” he choked, cleared his throat. “Look at me,” he said.

She opened her eyes, looked up at him hazily. He brushed his thumbs against her and pressed his mouth softly to hers.

She blinked up at him when he lifted his head, pulled her silky shift back up to cover her.

“I wish I could see them,” he told her. “I’m sure they’re very pretty.”

Dany whimpered again, threw her head back in frustration. He huffed a laugh through his nose and slid his hands back down to her waist.

Jon stood there a moment, enjoying the simple feel of her pressed up against him in a way he couldn’t before. He nudged his nose back in her hair and closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

She turned her head, and he could see her eyebrow raise in profile to him.

“Why are you pressing that against me?” she asked innocently.

He pulled back, surprised, then narrowed his eyes at her.

“So you can feel what you do to me,” he answered, pressing his hand flat against her stomach, unable to keep himself from canting his hips into her.

“And what about what you do to me?” she responded, voice rising dangerously close to a whine. “Don’t you have any idea about that?”

He pushed his hand in her hair again, tugged her head around to face him.

“I only want to take care of you,” Jon said fervently. “Every time I’m with you, I think about how I might please you, make you happy.”

Her eyes flicked between his, the space between them growing fraught and heavy once more. She swallowed shakily.

He rubbed his bearded cheek against hers, felt the pink warmth of her flushed skin.

“Do you want me,” he asked carefully, “to take care of you?”

She blinked up at him, eyes travelling down to his mouth.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“When?” he asked.

Dany took a breath, pulled herself up and leaned back against him again.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe- not- here,” she trailed off.

 _Not here?_ Jon tried to parse what that meant. Not here at Dragonstone? Not here, right now, in the open field on top of her dragon’s cliffs? He thought, in a brief flash, of bending her over where she stood, pulling up her skirt-

It was _not_ going to happen like that, Jon told himself sternly, so there was no point in engaging such thoughts.

“Are you sure I should be standing so close to you?” Dany asked unexpectedly. “I can’t imagine this is helping your situation all that much.”

“You’ll stay until I say you can leave,” he growled in her ear, digging his fingers playfully into her stomach.

Dany turned her head in a huff, but he could see the smile curling her lovely cheek.

They stood another moment, breathing together, watching the wind skate across the water’s black surface, little white ripples breaking where the gusts were too strong.

Dany brushed her fingers along his hand where it lay upon her middle.

“Did you mean what you said yesterday?” she asked suddenly.

Jon thought back over the conversations, the tense turns, the bumbles and rising hopes of their meeting at the Dragonpit.

“I try to say only things I mean,” he said, “but I’m not sure I know what you’re referring to.”

Dany was silent a moment, her fingertips continuing to brush at the hairs on his knuckles, the junctures between his fingers.

“About the witch,” she said finally. “That she might have been lying.”

Jon felt his heartbeat pick back up, the dream roaring to life in his ears. He made himself breathe, push it down, focus only on her.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Why do you believe it?”

She stiffened slightly, her hand stilling on his. “Because-” she said awkwardly, “I haven’t been- I mean- I’ve been- with...”

He realized suddenly what she was trying to say and shook his head quickly. “I don’t know your experiences, Dany, and I’m not asking,” he said. “I’m just asking, if she hadn’t said those words to you, would you still believe it today?”

He felt the breath leave her body, her head hanging, curls brushing against his wrists. “I don’t know,” she answered, “probably not.”

He closed his eyes again, set his chin upon her braids, and held her, content.

“But why did _you_ say it?” Dany pushed.

Jon blinked, nostrils flaring as the winds swirled around them.

“Because I’m in love with you,” he said simply, “and I want to give you everything you want.”

Dany lifted her head then, and Jon pulled back to keep his nose safe from bumping against her. “That’s not-” she started. “I don’t need- I don’t _want-”_

“Dany,” he said, a hint of rebuke in his voice.

She fell silent.

In another moment-

“I still might not-” she tried again. “I mean, it might not-”

“I know,” he said.

He leaned down, wrapping himself around her, whispered in her ear.

“You would be,” he told her, “a wonderful mother.”

She closed her eyes, clutched her fingers around his arms, and stood there with him, the winds swirling around them like the outside world, their separate cares and worries, their burdens, their pain and grief, while their entwined hopes nestled safe and warm in their embrace.

Dany stiffened a moment, an hour, a year later, and turned her head, caught sight of something behind them.

“It looks like you have to go,” she said softly.

Jon turned and glimpsed Ser Davos standing on the stair above, whistling innocently, pretending he hadn’t seen them.

He loosened his hold on her unwillingly. She turned and gave him a small smile.

“Goodbye,” she said, and then, “until next time,” she raised her brow coyly.

He clutched her fingers, unable to let her go so easily. He pressed his lips on the back of her hand, wondering at himself.

“My queen,” he said, “Dany.”

Jon turned and headed for the stair, ignoring Ser Davos’ inquiring glance.

Not here, she’d said.

On the boat then, he thought, when they sailed North.

One way or the other, she was getting on that boat with him.


	7. Mating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7: Late 7x07 - A door opens, the winding path beyond leading toward home. Jon and Dany take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strap in, buckos, because this is a long one at nearly 17K words.
> 
> I considered breaking this into 2 (or 3) chapters, but I wrote it as a single piece, so I've decided to keep it together. This means I will probably end up losing potential readers, so if any of you kind souls feel up to reccing or sharing my work, I would appreciate it from the bottom of my heart!
> 
> This has been such a beautiful journey for me, and I'm so pleased to have been able to share it with all of you. Your kind words and encouragement have helped me through some personal challenges, so please, never forget how important your feedback is to the real-life human at the other side of the screen!
> 
> With that said, please please please leave me a note if you've enjoyed this piece.
> 
> Lastly: this chapter is rated Mature.
> 
> Much love!

_ The stars should be bright tonight, _ was all he’d said.

Dany wrapped her fingers around the balustrade and tried not to feel foolish. She had every right to be here- this was  _ her  _ castle,  _ her  _ great stone balcony open to the winter night sky-

Was it so hard to be honest? she wondered at herself. What if she simply accepted that she was waiting here in a lumpy fur coat thrown over her nightgown, waiting for a man who had given the barest hint that he would come for her?

Well... in the noble pursuit of honesty, Dany could admit that it was a  _ bit  _ more than the barest hint. She combed her fingers through her curls and twisted them over her shoulder, smiling at the stars with the memory.

“I love this view,” he’d said that morning, regarding her steadily. “It’s beautiful.”

Dany rolled her eyes and huffed an incredulous breath at him, but couldn’t control the bubble of giddiness that rose up from her tummy to tickle at the corners of her mouth.

“What?” he’d said, sliding closer along the railing. “You don’t think so?”

“It’s the best place I’ve ever been,” she shot back, eyes widening a moment later when she thought he might take her comment in the same spirit he’d given his. She glanced up to see his brow lift and looked away quickly.

She didn’t want to take it back, not after she’d promised herself to give him as much honesty as she could. All the same, she rather wished she hadn’t said it. It felt... uncomfortable and sticky, like giving him tool after tool that he could turn around and use to hurt her. Dany felt her fear burn along her cheeks.

Then his hand was on her shoulder, and she was pulled into his warm presence. She pressed her face against his chest and squeezed her eyes closed. His fingers spanned the width of her back.

A confusing font of comfort welled up inside her, stinging in her eyes. It was clean and pure, but it scoured away the dark corners of her fear, leaving her raw and smarting.

Dany willed away her tears. She didn’t understand these sharp turns of mood, but lately they had been happening more and more often. There was a cider press inside her, and the wheel was always turning, squeezing out every last bit of juice she had to offer. What would happen when the fruit was all gone? she wondered. What would happen when he opened the lid and had a taste- would he decide the flavor wasn’t to his liking after all?

She drew back just enough to look up at him. He gazed down at her, eyes clear.

It was a risk, Dany knew, but the reward was so great, she’d be a fool not to take it.

Her head turned at the sound of a door slamming inside her chambers. Missandei, a good friend to give them plenty of warning of her approach.

Jon squeezed her arms once and stepped to the side, turning back to the black seas. Dany leaned against the railing and watched him, unwilling to look away.

“Hand-in-hand we walk the lane   
The crows may call, the moon may wane   
The bears and wolves stalk far and near   
The dark grows close, the heart knows fear   
But by your side my step grows light   
The stars shine bright tonight, my dear   
The stars shine bright tonight.”

“What’s that?” Dany asked, swaying gently against the balustrade. “A Northern love song?”

Jon smirked, shook his head. “Not too many love songs in the North,” he confessed, “at least none that I ever enjoyed hearing. No, it’s a nursery rhyme that Old Nan sang me once or twice, and wormed its way into my head somehow.”

“You heard it when you were very young?” she asked.

“Six, I think,” Jon said. “Old Nan called it ‘A Midnight’s Journey,’ about a mother and her child sneaking out of the house to explore the woods on their own.” He shrugged. “I don’t know why, but it settled in my head that day and never left.”

Daenerys stilled.  _ She  _ knew why, she realized. She knew Jon well enough, understood that there were secret cravings hidden inside him, ones he hadn’t shared with anyone- but she knew they were there, and she knew why the rhyme had wound its way around his heart, and furthermore, she knew why he repeated it to  _ her. _

It was a heady feeling, Dany thought, to understand another person so intimately.

“Jon,” she started, and stepped to his side, hating the distance between them. She pressed herself against his arm, wrapped her fingers around his neck.

He looked down at her in surprise.

“The point in all that,” he said, twining his fingers through hers, “was to tell you that the stars should be bright tonight, my love.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion.

Jon pulled her hand from his throat and took another step back. His thumb swiped the center of her palm once, and then she was apart from him again, separate.

Missandei approached and settled herself against the railing next to Daenerys. Jon took his leave of them soon after, lifting an eyebrow at her as he bowed, and she didn’t see him the rest of the day. The Dothraki had already started their journey North, but Dany had split them into factions before they left to ride through the lands surrounding the Blackwater. Each of the past four days, she took Drogon and Rhaegal and met them at the towns and Houses dotting the countryside between King’s Landing and Harrenhal, where they finally converged again that afternoon and turned East for the Vale.

It was politics, yes, and it was indeed tiresome to listen to the racist fears against her bloodriders expressed by the smallfolk in village after village- and the condescension of the minor lords bestowed upon her as a woman, and so  _ young, _ at House after House- but it was also her first real encounter with the people of Westeros, so it was exciting to her in many ways.

Once they ascertained that the rumors were true and the Dothraki were indeed riding North at the new King’s plea for help, and that the Dragon Queen wasn’t there to take their lands or raze their villages to the ground, the people were surprisingly talkative, common folk and minor nobility alike.

She had asked them to speak of their struggles and fears for the coming winter, and if there was one thing most people could hold verbose discourse on, Dany mused, it was their complaints.

There was an abundance of women that came forward to talk with her, she noticed. They approached carefully, eyes flicking between the mounted foreigners behind her and the dragons circling above, while the men kept a distrustful distance.

There was an abundance of women in truth compared to the number of men still alive after five long years of war. Daenerys studied them from behind her eyelashes as they clasped her hands and knelt before her. When the fighting was finally over, she thought, there would be need enough for strong men to fill this countryside and make whole families again. Many of her Dothraki were taking a head start on it, she knew, and the lonely Westerosi women were keen enough to let them.

Likewise, they expressed great interest in her own plans in that regard. She heard of sons and nephews as handsome as any Valyrian prince, as intelligent as any maester in the Citadel, as delightfully humorous as any court jester.

“My Timothy is the best huntsman in the village,” a straw-haired woman claimed, dragging a beet-red youth barely turned from a boy behind her. “And such a good-looking lad, don’t you think, Your Grace?” She pushed poor Timothy to stumble at Daenerys’ feet, where he knelt and stared at the ground.

“I am not displeased to look upon him,” she answered mildly, her lip quirking when the boy lifted his blond head to meet her eyes and just as quickly snapped his gaze back to the ground.

“Oh, don’t bother the Dragon Queen with the likes of him,” an old crone rasped from the crowd. Timothy stood and escaped gratefully back into the mass of townspeople gathered at the village center. “Besides, she’s already chosen her suitor.”

Daenerys met the old woman’s eyes, bright and impish. She tilted her head, amused by the woman’s spirit. “I’m afraid you’ve heard an untrue rumor, kind lady,” she said. “I have not settled to marriage with any suitor, nor do I intend to until the North is safe from its immediate threat.”

“Hmm,” the old woman chewed on this. “So you are not leaving your ancestral home and your war against the Lannisters behind because your future husband asked you to?”

Dany felt her eyes widen, and carefully clasped her hands together. “I’m sorry?” she asked the woman, allowing a hint of iron to color her tone.

The crone paid no heed to her warning. “We thought- to give the Northern King your armies and your dragons- such immense generosity could be better understood as wedding gifts to your intended.”

“That’s not-” Dany bit her tongue irritably. “The North stands in grave danger,” she tried to explain, “and if the North falls, the threat will extend to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms- all the way down to this very village and further again to Dorne.” She lifted her chin. “Many generations of Targaryens protected and built prosperity for this country- not all of them, I know, and their crimes cannot be forgotten. I wish to rebuild faith with the King in the North that the Starks and Targaryens can help each other again as they did for hundreds of years, and I have seen the enemy that marches against them now. So, yes, I am answering his plea for help as an ally who wishes to see Westeros grown strong and peaceful again.”

“Aha,” the woman answered, nodding in understanding. Dany breathed a sigh of relief and swept her gaze over the crowd. The people lent her half an ear, their attention divided by the dragons climbing the rambling bluffs surrounding their small city.

“Poor girl,” the old woman muttered to her companion, loud enough for Daenerys to hear.

“What’s that, my lady?” Dany turned to her in challenge.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she said innocently, “I know how difficult men can be. Three dragons and a hundred thousand soldiers- what more could he want?”

“You know what he wants,” another woman called from the opposite side of the square, to much laughter and ribald agreement.

“Well, yes,” the crone nodded and turned to Daenerys. “The sharpest tool in a woman’s arsenal is often the most persuasive, dear,” she said sagely.

Dany blinked. Did they truly believe- had it really become a common thought- were the smallfolk under the misapprehension that she answered the North’s call because she was in love with their King? And- even more humiliating- that her love was  _ unrequited? _

She had let this happen, she realized. People tended to judge others’ actions by their own, and when faced with large, complicated movements, they looked for the simplest answers to their lingering questions.

“I thank you for your advice,” Daenerys said firmly, “but I am quite accustomed to getting what I want in the end.”

The woman smirked at that, and Dany felt a keen sense of victory that she had no further response to nettle her with. She turned to signal her bloodriders that she was ready to leave.

“So perhaps we will hear of wedding bells in the North, Your Grace?” a girl piped up, straggly-haired in a well-worn dress, with solemn wide eyes.

Dany stopped and met her hopeful gaze.

She leaned in conspiratorially. “We’ll have to wait and see,” she told her, “you and I both.”

Dany brought cold fingers to her lips now, clutching the ends of her sleeves over her knuckles to brush against her frigid nose. She shivered against the balustrade and stared up at the crystalline night sky.

Perhaps she should wait inside, she thought, glancing over her shoulder, her fluttering curtains catching the moonlight like odd spirits winding about the empty dark. But if she went inside, she would lay down, she knew, on her big comfortable bed with its soft warm blankets, and she would close her eyes and drift off to sleep- and she would meet with him on the plane of dreams and unspoken hopes, but she would miss him if he came for her in the physical world, and it was the physical world she was concerned with tonight.

So she had forsaken her warm slumber to wait for him in the cold, and she wasn’t afraid that he would forget her- she  _ wasn’t- _ but she was tired from the day’s activities, and the fleet was setting sail tomorrow morning, and how much longer would she have to wait-

She turned at the sound of his step on the stair- she knew it was him, she knew the sound of his boots, she felt the familiar comfort of his presence approaching- and she rushed to greet him, her mind empty of fear.

“Dany,” he said, voice muffled in her hair, “your nose is freezing!”

She nudged it happily against his neck, snuffling in his Jon-scent when his hands squeezed at her waist.

He pulled away and looked down at her. “Why didn’t you wait inside?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I didn’t want to fall asleep,” she told him.

Jon studied her for a moment, then leaned down and clasped her cold nose between his lips.

She gasped when he breathed, quite deliberately, on her face.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, wriggling away and wiping at her moist nostrils.

“I was trying to melt your frozen nose,” he said reasonably.

She glared at him as imperiously as she could with glee rising up like a hot spring within her.

“And what if you had ghastly breath?” she asked.

He laughed, then pulled a straight face. “Oh,” he raised his brow, “do I?” He cupped a hand over his mouth and huffed a breath.

“No,” Dany said, and pressed herself against him again, sliding her arms around his neck. “You don’t,” she said, and let instinct wipe her inhibitions away, rising up on her toes to kiss him gladly.

He held her with one hand on her back, the other sliding up and down her side, failing to find purchase through her fur coat. She leaned against him and ran her fingers through his thick hair, gliding a hand down to tickle in his beard-

“Dany!” he pulled back sharply, gazing down at her in consternation. “Your hands are freezing!”

She rolled her eyes and whined in frustration. “Are you a Northman or not?” she demanded. “I thought you spent months beyond the Wall-”

“So I should let you put your cold hands on my neck?” he shook his head. “Oh no,” he said, “they’re like  _ ice, _ Dany.”

Her jaw dropped when he backed a step away from her. She stared, dumbfounded, then lunged at him, stretching her hands dangerously for his face-

“No, no, no,” Jon laughed, grabbing her wrists and holding them carefully away from him. “You can’t touch me with those,” he said.

“But I want to,” she pleaded, and it came out softer than she intended, needy. He blinked and stilled, looked down at her upturned face. 

Her heart skipped and fluttered in her breast. She felt her pulse quicken, jumping in her throat and against his thumbs on her wrists. Her sleeves fell back a few inches when he shifted his hands, tightened his fingers on her soft skin, and dragged her to stand against him. She stumbled when her foot caught against his, then stepped up onto his boots to put herself closer.

Dany heard his breath escape him just before he opened his mouth against hers, and then she knew only the dark wet heat of his tongue and the richness of her vulnerability when he pushed her wrists behind her back and held her in the circle of his arms.

She bent with him when he leaned her back and kissed her lips, little satisfied rumblings in his throat tingling down from her ears to flush through her skin and settle low in her tummy. He shifted her wrists to grasp them in one hand, and she arched her back in attempt to press herself more firmly against him.

She gasped and shook when he slid his other hand inside her coat and rubbed his fingers against the silkiness of her nightgown at her waist. He continued to kiss her, soft and sweet, but she was boneless, unable to focus on anything but his hand sliding up and down her stomach, caressing fondly at her breasts.

He pushed her coat open, and she swayed her hips against his unthinkingly. He answered her with an approving grunt, pushing back. His own coat hindered her from feeling the shape of anything too intimately, much to her displeasure. He was warm, though, and she felt her hips canting up to him, outside her conscious control.

The night air was cold on her front, but the heat of his proximity and her focus on his roving hand tingled warm waves down her skin. Her nipples were hard, and she moaned, trembled, when he tweaked one and rubbed his palm against the other.

Jon released her wrists, then, slid both hands around her hips and pushed her gently to arm’s length, staring down at her with dark eyes, exposed in her thin nightgown. Her hands were free, but she didn’t feel like using them just then, not when he was looking at her like that, not when she was so deliciously under his power.

“Gods,” he said, stepping closer to slide his hand deeper into the warmth of her coat, “your body,” he stroked her bottom, “is so-  _ fucking- _ sweet-”

Her breath left her then, her knees embarrassingly weak as she clutched at the furs on his chest while he kissed her neck and caressed her silky nightgown against her backside.

Dany was crisped, her flush crawling from her breasts up to her cheeks and from his hands on the globes of her rump to the swollen skin between her legs. She realized faintly that she was keening, low and urgent in her throat.

She felt his breath wash against her face and opened bleary eyes to see him looking at her steadily. She opened her mouth to say something- what, she had no idea- but then he backed her against the balcony railing and pulled up the hem of her nightgown, and she forgot to say anything, or what her voice was for other than releasing her passion in relieving little moans, or even indeed to close her mouth.

His hand traveled up the inside of her knee and clutched at her skin mid-thigh, and  _ Oh don’t stop don’t stop _ was all she could think.

They both groaned when he slid his fingers between her folds, and then his mouth was on hers and her ears were roaring, and she was kissing him because it would be terrible to stop, and her tongue was inside his hot mouth, and then his tongue was inside hers, and then his finger was inside her, too, and she moaned and moaned against his lips.

Burning, the top of her head was burning, and her cheeks, and her neck, and her slippery insides where he pushed another finger inside and stroked against her.

She leaned back against the railing and stared up at the night sky, felt the cold air brush against her hot skin.

The stars  _ were  _ bright tonight, she thought.

She heard him groan and grind his hand against her, then he yanked her neckline down rudely and pulled out her naked breasts.

Oh, she was going to scream, Dany thought faintly. 

Jon lifted one of her breasts and leaned down to suck on it, his tongue lapping at her nipple.

“Oh gods,” she groaned and clutched at his shoulders. He hummed, a contented sound, and rubbed his palm against her folds, finding her clit.

“Oh gods,” she said again, louder, and he grunted in agreement, suckling at her tits.

She looked down at him with glassy eyes, arrested by the sight of him pulling at a pink nipple with his lips, her flushed skin reflecting the moonlight, his arm disappearing from view beneath her nightgown, hitched up past her knees.

Her head was blank, buzzing. She watched, wide-eyed, as he rubbed his face against her breasts, his scratchy beard making her quiver.

“Jon-” she gasped, cheeks hot.

“Dany,” he moaned, “you’re so beautiful,” he said, “and soft.”

Her heart was racing, her whole body quivering, on edge-  _ not yet, _ part of her begged, and,  _ gods, now, _ another part demanded.

“Jon-” she choked, close to tears.

He shifted his fingers deeper inside her, twisting his hand around. Dany moaned, the first warm tremors of her release trickling down her neck when his thumb rubbed against her.

“Dany,” he looked up at her, his cheek still resting against her tit, “you’re so wet,” his eyes were wide.

She did scream, then, just as she thought she would, and clutched at his arms while below she pulsed and clenched at his fingers. It hit her like a drenching wave in the middle of a storm battering at the island. She shook and pulsed, her heat for him rushing through her blood to tingle out from her slick crevice to her heart to the tips of her fingers and toes.

She slumped when it was over, wrung out and pleasantly shaky. He pulled his hand out from under her skirt and wrapped it around her back. Dany clung her arms around his neck and pressed her warm cheek against his chest.

She closed her eyes and swayed, overwhelmed and a bit groggy.

Dany blinked, startled, when Jon bent at the knees, cradled his forearms under her rear and hoisted her up off the ground. Her stomach quivered, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. She stared down at him as he glanced at her, then carried her to her chaise on the other side of the balcony.

He sat down carefully and met her eyes with a smile, sliding his hands up her back to keep her straddled against him. She shivered when he poked his nose between her breasts, still exposed, her neckline stretched under their weight.

“Jon,” she wanted to explain this overwhelming sense of warm gratitude she felt for him, roaring up from her tummy to catch painfully in her throat, but she didn’t know how, and it felt inadequate to say ‘thank you’ compared to the magnitude of what he had given her-

“I love you,” he said, and she blinked back her tears and nodded.

Jon leaned back and pulled her on top of him. Her open coat wrapped around his sides, her body tucked between him and her furs. He snaked a hand inside to fondle her breast. She closed her eyes and listened to his heart beat, his steady breath, the sigh of the sea wind above them, cold on her exposed cheek, the rest of her warm and leaden.

In the morning, she just barely remembered waking as he’d carried her to bed.

“Don’t leave,” she’d said when he pulled the blanket up, her voice laden with sleep. “Stay,” she clutched his elbow.

He leaned over her and brushed her mouth with his. “You’re tired,” he said, then paused, meeting her eyes.

Dany melted into the bed at his closeness.

“Tomorrow,” he said, the barest hint of a question in his voice.

She nodded.

Jon looked at her another moment, then kissed her again, and left.

Dany closed her eyes and fell asleep easily, peaceful and happy.

 

Inside her, Jon thought as he crept down the stairs and turned into the castle, he had pushed his fingers and touched  _ inside her. _

His heart shuddered at the memory.

He paced quietly down the hall, reaching out a hand to brush against the stone wall in the dark.

She’d been so hot and slick in her intimate spaces, her smooth walls clenching at his knuckles when she came on his fingers, her red flush sweeping down onto her breasts-

Jon’s eyes rolled back in his head as he pushed gratefully into his private chambers. Gods, her breasts- as if he needed to remember-

This wouldn’t take long, he thought, undressing quickly and crawling into bed-

And it didn’t, not after he’d been inside her, not when he had intimate knowledge now of her tight heat- he lifted his fingers to his nose and breathed deeply, thought about pressing his cock inside that little, slick-

He washed his hands when he was done, slid under the covers and fell into a warm, untroubled sleep.

“Dear Missandei was just telling me the oddest rumor,” Ser Davos said behind him the next morning as they descended the great winding stair to the harbor.

Jon blinked, his back tightening. Did Missandei know- what if she had, somehow,  _ seen- _ a crystal clear picture of Daenerys flashed in his head, of her leaning back against the railing, her tits soft and pink in the moonlight, open-mouthed while he fucked her with his fingers-

He felt his whole body flush and tingle, a warm alertness settling between his shoulder blades. His stomach tightened, his tendons crackling in preparation for something- he recognized the feeling from the days and weeks of his life he’d spent waiting for battle to commence, except this was far hotter, his heart racing as the mental image singed through his blood, and far sweeter, his mind lulled somehow, even while he remembered how she’d gasped and rode his hand, tits quivering-

Jon nearly missed his next step and berated himself inwardly.

“Yes, Missandei was just telling me the strangest thing-” Ser Davos tried again.

“What?” Jon asked, tense.

Davos tutted, as much of a scolding as Jon was going to get for his rudeness. “She said that, while her mistress was visiting the common folk near Harrenhal, they heard the people express belief in a certain rumor...” He trailed off suggestively.

“What rumor?” Jon said, trying not to be irritable.

“Well,” Davos said, his voice growing crisper at having claimed Jon’s attention, “the women seemed to think that Queen Daenerys was going North with all her strength as a type of courtship, of a level compatible only with rulers.”

Jon squinted a hundred yards ahead, catching the diminishing line of Unsullied soldiers boarding the fleet preparing to depart the harbor.

“What?” he said again, not seeing the significance of Davos’ statement.

“Yes,” Davos said, slowing his words like he was speaking to a distracted child, “the common folk of Westeros have picked up the idea that the Dragon Queen is bestowing gifts upon the King in the North due to her- very sad and poignant- unrequited love.”

Jon’s steps slowed as the words trickled past the cloud in his brain, until he came to a stop halfway down the last stair.

He turned and looked up at Davos, who was watching him with a satisfied glint in his eye.

“What?” he said yet again, incredulity seeping into his voice.

“People love stories about grand romance, Jon,” Ser Davos said reasonably, “the more tragic, the better.”

“But why-  _ how-” _ he spluttered, unable to wrap his mind around it. “They have  _ seen  _ her, haven’t they?” he said without thinking.

Davos smirked. Jon clenched his jaw, heat crawling up his neck. “Well, no,” Davos said, “not until yesterday; before, they’d only heard second- and third-hand accounts.”

Pity for them, Jon thought with a touch of smugness.

“And this- rumor,” he said carefully, “Missandei heard this privately from some of the common women?”

“Uh- no,” Davos shook his head, “they said it quite cheerfully to the Queen herself.”

Jon stared at him, trying not to let his racing thoughts reflect on his face. Yesterday- they’d said it to her yesterday- but she hadn’t been upset with him last night, or cold- just the opposite, in fact, she’d  _ burned- _

“Does no one believe that my warning about the army of the dead is credible, then?” he asked peevishly.

_ “She _ does,” Davos said slyly. Jon shot him an irritated look.

“Come, Jon,” he said soothingly, “it’s too big for them to wrap their heads around, and after five years of war, the last thing they want to think about are creatures from a terrible nightmare come to ravage their country.” He put a fatherly hand on Jon’s shoulder. “You’ve given them something just as compelling to think of, and much more pleasant.”

“I haven’t done anything!” Jon protested.

“Yes,” Davos nodded, “that does seem to be the point.”

Jon’s nostrils flared at a cold sea breeze as he tried to control his temper. “What,” he said, jaw clicking, “do you mean?”

“She’s given you safe keeping at her home, as much dragonglass as you wanted, her dragons and her armies,” Davos pointed out, “and just now, it doesn’t appear to the people of Westeros that you’ve given her anything in return.”

Jon’s heart skipped painfully, his chest growing cold.

“I-” he didn’t know what to say.

“I imagine it’s made her extremely sympathetic to the public imagination,” Davos mused. “A beautiful Targaryen Queen, the first to raise dragons in a hundred years, recently arrived from exotic and foreign lands, is difficult for the common folk to understand. But a young girl in love with a King who is unmoved by her, no matter what she does for him? It diminishes her mythical status, puts her on a level they can sympathize with-”

“I don’t want to diminish her!” Jon protested, his throat growing tight with panic. He paced to the railing, looked unseeingly over the cliffs, then turned back to Davos.  _ “Unmoved?” _ he repeated, horrified.

“I assure you, that’s an assumption only one who hasn’t been around you in the past three months could make,” Davos said dryly.

Jon closed his eyes and tried to breathe calmly. He couldn’t let himself devolve into an emotional crisis, not when they were finally heading North again, not when the days until his next meeting with the dead were growing fewer and fewer- this was why he’d kept himself apart from her for so long, because he needed to focus on the mission, because he would be stronger without her-

_ Fuck that, _ a voice raged within him.

“Why are you telling me this?” Jon demanded.

“It was information I believed you would find personally significant,” Davos said.

Jon narrowed his eyes.

“Like I said, I don’t believe this has caused the Queen any harm, and likely indeed has improved her standing with the common people,” Davos continued, “and it doesn’t seem to have damaged your reputation either-”

“I don’t give a damn about that-” Jon said heatedly.

“-at least, not yet,” Davos ignored his interruption. Jon eyed him suspiciously. “The people will draw their own conclusions while they wait, Jon, and a little waiting can make the reward all the sweeter. Too much, though, and their thoughts will sour toward you.”

“Waiting for what?” Jon said, wishing the man would get to the point-

“For the wedding announcement,” Davos said.

Jon swayed back on his heels.

He grit his teeth. “What wedding announcement?” he said, purposefully obtuse.

Davos gave him a reproachful look. “I know you can be a blockhead, Jon,” he said, “but even you don’t have that many rocks between your ears.”

Jon sighed and turned back to the railing, leaning wearily upon his hands.

“It’s not enough that I’m leading the war against the dead,” he bit out, “but I have to arrange my personal affairs according to the whims of the country, too?”

Davos paused a moment. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” he said carefully, “I did not expect the will of the people to be so distasteful to you in this matter.”

Jon closed his eyes, frustration and a tinge of fear coiling up from his heart. “She’s not ready,” he said unwillingly.

“I see,” Davos said and sniffed. “Well, I’m sure you understand the situation better than I do, but I must say, I find that hard to believe.”

Jon bit his tongue, allowing his panic to buzz through him. It swept down his throat and clenched his stomach in knots, but after a moment, his mind cleared again, his heart snapping steadily between his collarbones.

“Davos,” he straightened and turned to him. “We’re going to war, and the enemy-” he shook his head. “How can I make any promises to her when I have no confidence that I will be around to keep them?”

Davos pursed his lips and coughed dryly into his hand. When he looked back up, Jon was surprised to see his eyes bright with feeling.

“That is something I am sure you can settle with her,” Davos said, “provided you talk to her about it.”

Jon stared, less than fully comprehending him. “But-” he tried again, “wouldn’t it be better for the country to wait?” he asked. “Give them- I don’t know, give them something to celebrate after, if any of us are still alive?”

“I don’t think so,” Davos shook his head. “If you do it soon, and they hear what they want to hear, they’ll follow news from the North with baited breath and be more likely to send aid if they hear that you are failing. If you wait, they’ll wait with you.”

Jon clenched his hand. He did not at all relish being shepherded by the will of people so separate from himself in his private matters. On the other hand, he could admit that he did not himself hold any desire to wait- provided  _ she  _ was ready-

“Why did Missandei tell you this?” Jon wondered.

“Oh, Missandei and I share a great deal regarding the sovereigns we serve,” Davos informed him.

Jon raised his brow. “You do,” he said flatly.

“Mm,” Davos nodded. “We have a common interest, you see, in ensuring that the two of you know what the hell you’re doing.”

Jon glared at him. “And what makes you think we don’t?” he demanded.

“Your age, your inexperience, the depth of your feelings, and your behavior,” Davos said.

Jon bristled.

“It’s quite charming to watch,” Davos assured him.

Jon scowled down at the stone landing beneath his feet.

“I mean it, Jon,” he continued, “you’re both so young and inexperienced in this- far too experienced in other things- and I do not begrudge you the desire to take your time and enjoy it. I wish you could have all the time in world, but you don’t. You do, however,” his voice brightened, “have a little bit of time, since you convinced her to get on that ship with you,” he nodded toward the harbor.

Jon’s eyes widened in spite of himself, and he didn’t dare look up to meet Ser Davos’ gaze.

“Or maybe you already had some plans in that regard,” Davos commented.

Jon felt his blush burn the tops of his ears, so he turned his back on the wretched man and glared down the cliffside.

Ser Davos laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “I thought you might,” he said. “Well, good,” he moved down the stair to stand next to him. “That’s what I was going to tell you- to take your two weeks on that ship and use them, because it would be best that the matter were settled when we reach White Harbor.”

“White Harbor?” Jon repeated dumbly. “I thought- Winterfell-”

Davos looked at him pityingly. “The announcement should be made in White Harbor so the masses have time to travel to Winterfell.”

Jon felt his displeasure on his face. “The  _ masses?” _ he said in dismay.

“Yes, Jon,” Davos nodded patiently. “You’re a young King, she’s a young Queen, of two respected and legendary Houses, and the country has been through five years of war. I see on your face that this isn’t what you want, but what you want is not always the most important factor anymore.”

“Was it ever?” he muttered testily.

“Come,” Davos said, “after the noise and spectacle and bawdy jokes are all over- you’ll have  _ her, _ won’t you?”

His eyes were kind. Jon nodded quickly, heart in his throat.

Davos gave him a warm smile, then turned and clipped down the stair ahead of him.

So he had two weeks to love her on his own, he mused, and then he’d have to throw open the doors to scrutiny and gossip of those things closest to his heart.

He didn’t like kowtowing to someone else’s timeline, but he found he didn’t mind the sequence of events too much.

He did want to marry her, and he wanted to marry her at Winterfell, and he didn’t want to keep his intentions a secret from the world any longer- gods knew he wasn’t very adept at keeping secrets.

And furthermore, he promised himself as he followed Ser Davos down to the harbor, if they won the coming war and he survived to be her husband for the rest of his days, no one in Westeros would ever again have any doubt that he loved his Queen.

 

“Now, the Manderlys have newly returned from the call to rebuild Winterfell,” Lord Tyrion said across the table from her, “and they were particularly vocal about crowning a Stark to rule the North-”

Daenerys wanted to follow along, but her mind was quite occupied at the moment with trying desperately not to think about the activities of the previous evening- or to wonder what might be repeated and what might be newly discovered that night. She took a slow, lingering sip of her red wine and let it mellow on her tongue.

She had a thought, then, of pulling open his shirt and spilling just a few errant drops on his stomach, to taste off his skin, to lap out of the wiry hairs across his chest-

She passed a hand over her mouth to push her smile forcefully back down. She gave her palm one quick little lick in promise.

Dany suddenly recalled the angry scars spread across his front and wondered if he would be comfortable with such an experiment.

The thought made her sad, marring her imagined delight.

No matter, she told herself sternly, I’m quite sure there are other things he’d like me to lick-

And then she was smiling again, staring off into the distance like a simpleton.

“Where are you, Daenerys?” Tyrion asked impatiently. “Because wherever you are, it’s certainly not here listening to me.”

Dany sighed and leaned her chin upon her hand to look at him. “I’m sorry, my lord,” she apologized. “Go on.”

He shot her an exasperated look, but continued. “Nothing would please Lord Manderly more than to marry off his elder daughter to a Stark,” he said, “and as I said, he was one of the most outspoken lords for Northern independance from Southern rule- he still remembers what your father did to his liege and his heir, after all,” Dany sat up straight and knitted her brow, her attention finally focused. “For these reasons, I advise you to stay back, at least at first, while Jon Snow courts the Manderlys to your side.”

“Stay back?” Dany repeated, dumbfounded.

“Yes,” Tyrion nodded, “just at first, so Jon can-”

“So Jon can pretend to woo his daughter and remind the family how much the North needs my help, much as they may detest it?” her voice rose in challenge.

“Yes, exactly,” Tyrion said. “This is his country, and since he’s sworn himself to your rule, there can’t be any harm in letting him take the lead here-”

“Jon said we should arrive in the North together,” she argued. “That’s the whole point of us traveling on this boat- so we come to White Harbor  _ together.” _

“Oh, that’s the whole point, is it?” Tyrion said flatly. Dany stared at him, not understanding his meaning. He sighed, swilled his own cup of wine before setting it carefully back on the wooden table in their private dining cabin. He looked out the window at the little slice of endless black seas. “I commend you again on convincing him to bend the knee,” he said, “but you would be naive to think the Northern lords will not cause trouble about it.”

“I didn’t  _ convince  _ him,” Dany protested, disliking the mercenary light he cast on her. “He did it himself.”

Tyrion let loose a little groan, leaning his head back and lifting his eyes to the heavens. “I know,” he sighed, “and somehow that’s even worse.”

She stared at him, her stomach clenching unpleasantly. Unexpected tears sprang in her eyes. “What do you mean?” she asked uncertainly. “Why shouldn’t he choose to fight for my cause?” she demanded. “Am I- not worthy of his sword or his-” her voice caught, “-good opinion?”

Tyrion regarded her, eyes softening. “Of course that’s not what I meant,” he said. “I only meant- we’re headed now for a very dangerous enemy, and we need all the friends we can get. That means playing the game a bit. Strategy, Your Grace,” he said, “strategy must come before personal feelings and values, if we want to stay alive.”

“So you want me to pretend it doesn’t bother me when you ask Jon to flirt with the first Northman’s daughter we come across?” she asked.

“No,” Tyrion said, and Daenerys felt the briefest flicker of relief, “I want  _ you  _ to ask him to flirt with the first Northman’s daughter we come across.”

Dany stared at him, her mouth slack. “You can’t be serious,” she shook her head.

“Of course I am,” he answered testily. “Do you think it gives me delight to make you jump through ridiculous hoop after hoop, all in the name of political allies?”

“I am a Queen!” Daenerys slammed her hand on the table. Tyrion jolted just the slightest half-inch, eyes closing at the sound. “I will not bend myself or those I respect to fit into some twisted approximations of what the people  _ think  _ they want-”

“That’s what a Queen does,” Tyrion bit back at her. “Welcome to the rest of your life, Your Grace.”

Dany blinked, taken aback by his harsh tone.

“You’re wrong,” she said, low and quiet.

He lifted his cup in a sardonic salute and drained it.

She stared at the table, her mind scattered, whirling, until one thought shone through, clear and bright.

“Jon would never do that,” she said. “He’s not a liar, and he would never lead a woman on with less than honorable intentions.”

He crooked an eyebrow at her, and she fought to keep the blush off her cheeks.

“He would,” Tyrion said, “if you asked him to.”

Dany clenched her fist. “You want me to manipulate an honest man that you  _ know  _ I respect into doing something that neither of us want,” she was incredulous.

“I want you to look at the strategic implications of the situation we are walking into!” Tyrion exclaimed. “I want you to choose and plan for the best possible steps you can take to ensure that we make a positive impression and receive the support we need to  _ stay alive!” _

“I don’t think all this is necessary,” she said, goaded by his relentless pragmatism to speaking before her mind could catch up to her.

Tyrion leaned back in his chair.

“You don’t,” he said.

Dany bit her tongue, but stubbornly refused to think too closely on what she was revealing.

She shook her head.

He raised his brow and lifted his hand, waiting for her to explain.

“Jon-” she started, chewed her lip. “There is- we are- an understanding exists,” she trailed off.

“An understanding exists,” Tyrion repeated, less than impressed with this explanation.

“Yes,” she said, “and by the time we reach White Harbor, I don’t think it will be such an issue to prove my loyalty to his war.”

“Because an understanding exists,” he said slowly, “between you and Jon Snow?”

Dany nodded.

He lowered his eyes and studied his empty wine cup. Daenerys shifted uncomfortably in her seat while the silence stretched between them.

“Has he spoken to you, then?” Tyrion said finally.

Dany clenched her hand in her skirt, nervous somehow. “Has he spoken to me... about what?” she asked.

“About marriage, Daenerys,” he said wearily.

She bit her lip and flipped frantically through her memories of the past few weeks, even though she perfectly remembered every encounter they’d shared. He’d spoken to her of love, and children, and- and  _ mating  _ (her blood tingled), but the exact topic of marriage had not come up, not in so many words. She knew him, though, and she was sure she hadn’t misunderstood his intentions- indeed, the lack of discussion about it hadn’t caused her any distress, not until this very moment.

She suddenly felt an ice cold terror that she had misunderstood him, after all. He was an honest and straightforward man- perhaps it should have come up already-

“He has not,” she said faintly, “but the understanding-”

“There is no understanding if he hasn’t spoken to you!” Tyrion exclaimed and shook his head. “This is exactly why I was leery of your growing fondness for him.”

Dany swayed, as stunned as if he had just slapped her across the face. “What do you mean?” her voice quivered.

“I mean you’re not acting like yourself!” Tyrion said. “You’re throwing yourself and everything you’ve struggled to gain behind a personal connection, the nature of which you’re not even sure of! You’ve failed to look at the coming journey from a strategic perspective, or made any attempt to choose the best possible path to save as many lives as possible.” He shook his head. “You have a good heart, Daenerys,” he said, “but in war and politics, the mind must be clear and logical if you wish to gain the advantage.”

Dany stood, shaking from head to toe. She clenched her fists and tamped down her tears. “I have great respect for you and your intelligence, my lord,” she said. “But you don’t know everything- and you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

He looked up at her, and something in the lines of her face made his shoulders slump in defeat. “And Jon Snow does?”

Dany swallowed. “Yes,” she said.

“In that case,” he looked past her toward the door, “I hope you’re right- for all our sakes.”

She felt oddly as though she was being dismissed from his presence, when  _ he  _ was  _ her  _ attendant, and she had just stood to leave in any case. She stared at him another moment, but their conversation had clearly run its course, so turned on her heel and stalked through the door, eyes blurring.

She  _ was  _ thinking things through strategically, she told herself. She’d given Jon her word that she would help him in the North because she had seen the enemy-  _ before  _ he had said anything to her of love or, or-

Perhaps Tyrion had heard the smallfolk’s rumor about her unrequited romance, Dany thought sardonically, brushing away her tears.

She hadn’t thought much of the rumor since hearing it the previous morning, but she could see how it might make her seem weak-

-she didn’t care, though, it didn’t bother her in the slightest, because she knew that the country needed her to go North, even if they wanted to believe it was for love and not to burn an army of the dead to the ground- and because she knew Jon loved her, and that knowledge alone would compel her to give him anything he asked her for-

Dany stopped. The boat creaked under her feet.

That  _ didn’t  _ sound like her, she realized uneasily.

Give him anything he asked? she thought. Where had that come from?

She was Queen- she couldn’t be beholden to another person’s will-

-could she?

What if, her mind jumped forward frantically, what if he asked something of her that she could not reconcile with her own values and plans-

_ -then your values and plans would have been wrong, _ a voice whispered in her ear.

Dany blinked. That  _ really  _ didn’t sound like her.

She shook herself. Jon had never shown any inclination to control her, or anyone else for that matter. He wouldn’t ask her to do something against her own purposes unless innocents were suffering-

-but what if he did?

She slumped against the wall.

Maybe this was happening too quickly, she thought. His honesty and kindness, gentleness and hidden humor had lodged its way into her heart nearly two months past- and his pursuit of her over the past few weeks was anything but unwelcome...

...but his love kept winding its way deeper and deeper inside her, and Daenerys was growing worried at just how deep her great dark need went. Every day that passed since he began to love her, her need ached and grew, empty caverns that whistled with the gusts of her desperation, and her helplessness  _ not  _ to need him,  _ not  _ to need his love, frightened her.

She straightened at the sound of voices down the narrow hall and around the corner. She didn’t feel up to the mask at present, so she shuffled quickly against the wall and into a shadowed alcove harboring a set of finely-wrought doors. Dany grasped an iron handle and pulled herself halfway through when his familiar accent rose and fell, and she stopped, looking over her shoulder, unable to continue on her way if he was close by.

“The captain’s recommendation was to head inland for the night,” another voice said with a similar Northern cadence, becoming clear as the party turned the corner and approached, “better to avoid the storms that’ve been blowing down from the North.”

Dany wound herself around the back of the door, holding it open just wide enough to see the men pass down the hall.

“Has there been any word on where the storms have hit along the coast?” Dany’s head tilted at the sound of Jon’s voice.

“No, Your Grace,” two Unsullied clipped past, followed by a haggard-looking Northman, Ser Davos, two more Unsullied, and-

-Dany stepped back through the doors, drawn by the sight of him.

“They say the storms must be coming from beyond the Wall,” the Northman continued, disappearing from view, “as they haven’t hit land anywhere in the North.”

“I see,” Jon muttered and passed a hand over his eyes. He cricked his neck to the side-

-and stopped, catching the glint of her hair where she stood in the alcove beside him, still holding the door open behind her.

He met her eyes. She stared, waiting.

“Your Grace?” she heard Ser Davos say from the end of the hall and shrank back half a step, unwilling to be seen by the others.

“If that’s what the captain recommends, then that’s what will be done,” Jon said, turning back to his party. “Excuse me a moment; I will catch up to you.”

He waited a beat while his attendants took their leave, then turned on his heel and passed into the shadows, approaching her.

She backed through the doorway and into the room beyond, startled by his confident advance.

He pushed through the door and spared the room half a glance before looking at her again, steady and hungry.

“What are you doing?” Dany asked when he stepped even closer. It occurred to her then that the last time she had seen him, his fingers had been stroking inside her and her breast had been in his mouth-

She flushed, heart racing.

His eyes widened at the pink crawling across her skin. “You know what I’m doing,” he said, lip quirking, and backed her into a dark corner.

“Yes, but,” she said, her head starting to buzz, “why are you doing it?”

Jon stopped a moment, eyes flicking between hers. “You know that, too,” he smiled, and her elbows bumped against the wall when he stepped his foot between hers and bent his neck to look down at her.

Dany felt her breath circling through her body, her heart thick and wet in her chest. She tilted her head back to see the lines of his face, soft and shadowed in their private corner.

“Anyone could walk in,” she didn’t know what she was saying, or why she was saying it, but grasped desperately for some measure of control over the situation.

“They could,” Jon agreed, and her body hurt to stand so close and not be touched by him, her skin tight and hot, “and I could tell them to go away.” He tilted his head, six inches apart from her, still not touching her- and why wasn’t he touching her- “Or I could leave,” he said.

Dany looked at him and tried to think about Westerosi propriety, and the rumors circling the country, and what Tyrion had just said to her, but it was simply dreadful not to touch him, not while he was standing so close to her, not while they had this dark little corner in a quiet room all to themselves-

She leaned up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his, digging her fingers against the warm mass of his shoulders.

Jon answered her immediately, wrapping his arms around her back, squeezing her against him. She snaked her hands behind his neck and exhaled a short gasp when he lifted her off the floor, toes dangling against his.

It was incredible, Dany mused; before, she had been twisted with worries, anxious and doubtful of herself. Now, she was perfectly content, her mind peaceful and clear again.

Jon scattered a mess of kisses across her face, and she smiled, trying to catch his lips with her own. He hitched her higher up his body, so she wrapped her legs around his, another quick flash from the previous night fluttering in her heart.

He leaned her against the wall and pulled back to look up at her.

“I can’t stop thinking about last night,” he told her, voice low. Her stomach warmed and trembled.

“I can’t either,” she whispered.

He smiled, his lashes sweeping closed just before he pushed another kiss on her mouth.

“Do you still want me to come for you tonight?” he asked against her lips.

Her whole body tightened around him, her legs squeezing, her arm tucking behind his neck as she swiped at his tongue.

“Oh, let’s go now,” she begged him, kissing her way down his chin. Her need roared up inside her, and she couldn’t let this moment go, she couldn’t wait any longer- “Yes, Jon, please,” she moaned, pressing her face against his neck and biting her teeth against him, “now, let’s go now.”

His arms shook against her back, and he groaned, turning his head to catch her mouth. He pressed her against the wall, and his mouth was a hot dark pool of relief, of escape. She clutched at him and kissed him passionately, because she didn’t want to be confused anymore, and she didn’t want to be alone-

“Dany,” he breathed hard, leaning back, eyes dark. “We can’t go now, there’s still the final reports and the meal with the crew-”

“I don’t care, I don’t care,” she moaned, canting her hips against him. His breath stuttered, his eyes rolling back. Dany took advantage of his weakness to press her mouth to his again, to suck, hard, on his lip-

And then her legs were unwinding at the press of his hand on her hips, and she was being lowered back to the ground.

His mouth was wet when he gave her a sweet kiss and pushed his fingers in her hair, leaning over her.

“Dany,” he said, looking at her carefully, “is everything alright?”

She rubbed her hands up and down his chest, the mindless black need slowly trickling away, leaving her tired and raw. “I just-” she said, feeling her throat grow tight. “It hurts to be apart from you.”

His fingers tightened at her nape, and he pulled her against him, holding her fiercely.

“I know,” he said, voice hoarse, “I feel it too.”

Dany felt her relief at this shared confession clogging up her throat, so she buried her face against his neck and wept a few tears.

He nudged his fingers against her chin after a moment, brushed her wet cheeks with his thumb.

“Are you sure nothing is wrong?” Jon asked.

She stared up at his beloved face, her heart beating painfully for him.

“Do you love me?” she asked.

He nodded. “I do,” he said, “though it sounds a terrible understatement compared to what I feel.”

She breathed, her sweet pain loosening its dreadful grip. “Then nothing could be wrong,” she told him.

 

Jon’s head turned at the sound footsteps approaching. They stilled, staring at the door, but the passerby continued on his way down the hall. He turned back to Daenerys, sliding his hand around her slim waist-

She crooked her arm around his neck and dragged him down to meet her. His hands flexed around her in surprise, her mouth warm and giving-

And then her lips were gone, and she stepped around him, backing quickly toward the door.

“I’ll see you tonight at dinner,” she said, flashing him a coy look that snaked its way down his spine, “and after.”

He stood staring at the empty doorway a few moments, pulse snapping in his ears, before he gathered himself and set off for his final obligations of the day.

 

The dining hall was not spacious by any means, but it fit a few hundred men, enough to feed the ship’s crew of Unsullied on rotation as they traded tasks and recesses within their ranks. Daenerys took her place at the top of the hall, the soldiers’ conversations lulling in respect until the serving boy filled her glass and she lifted it to them in acknowledgement.

She took a slow sip and set the cup carefully in front of her, sweeping her eyes down the table. Jon sat to her right, some of his Northern party beside him, while to her left Tyrion had chosen to leave one seat empty between them- presumably for Missandei, Dany thought, though they both knew well enough that when Missandei arrived, she would choose to sit at the end of the table next to Grey Worm. Lord Varys sat silently next to Tyrion, then another few Unsullied-

She suddenly felt Ser Jorah’s absence, felt sure that he would have noted the tension between herself and her Hand and would have taken it upon himself to draw the dwarf into conversation, to ease the rigid space between them. But Ser Jorah was riding with the Dothraki, and Daenerys knew it was for the best, that even the most generous of hearts can snap if one asks too much-

She met Tyrion’s eyes, then. He lifted his cup and studied her, then leaned forward against the table and flicked his eyes at Jon. He turned back to her and lifted his brow pointedly.

She flushed, her body tensing.

Tyrion gave a quick, irritated shake of his head, and turned his shoulder to her. She watched the top of his yellow crown as he drained his cup and slammed it on the table, gesturing for more.

Dany turned forward again, fingers brushing anxiously against the stem of her goblet. She swallowed hard, her eyes darting to her right-

Ser Davos was looking at her. She blinked and straightened, meeting his gaze.

He gave her a quick smile, glanced at his liege, who was currently twisting his dinner knife between his fingers, deep in thought, and back to her.

Davos pushed his chair back, scraping against the wood flooring, and stepped carefully behind them to settle himself in the seat beside Dany, crowding himself into Lord Tyrion’s space.

“Pardon me, my lord,” Davos said, “but you must tell me again how you smuggled yourself across the Narrow Sea to Queen Daenerys’ service.”

She looked over her shoulder to see Tyrion glance up at the man in surprise, before Davos scraped his chair even closer, compelling the little man to slide his own chair further down the table, more safely out of hearing.

She turned back with a smile to see Jon watching his Hand with a furrowed brow.

“What was that about?” he asked her, bemused.

Dany huffed a laugh through her nose, took another sip of wine, her shoulders relaxing again.

“I think he’s trying to give us a chance to speak together,” she said. “I think Ser Davos is quite a romantic at heart.”

Jon snorted. “Little doubt of that.” Dany smiled at him.

“What about you?” she asked, leaning in a hair. The Unsullied were not, as a rule, boisterous, but their voices filled the hall, the scrape and clink of plates and cups rising up to cover their private conversation in a protective blanket. “Is there romance in your heart, Jon Snow?”

He turned to her, his arm crooked over the back of his chair. “Aye, indeed,” he nodded. “Might be newly discovered, but I think it’s always been there.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “What do you have to sound surprised about?” he demanded, half-indignant. She covered her giggle with her hand, looking down at the table.

His smile was easy when she glanced back up at him.

“There’s a story in the North,” he told her, “another I learned when I was young- the Maiden Rescuer, have you heard it?”

“The Maiden Rescuer,” she repeated, less than impressed. “No, I don’t believe I have.”

She saw a quick flash of teeth before he took a fortifying drink, set his cup down and prepared himself for the telling. Dany leaned back in her chair, amused.

“Many years ago,” he started, “there was a very long summer in the North- and as every Northerner knows, too long a spate between winters is fertile ground for all manner of dishonorable behavior to flourish,” Dany snorted and he tilted an eye at her. “It’s true,” he protested, “winter is cleansing-”

“I never passed a winter,” she argued, “I’d never seen snow before a month ago.”

“And I want to do very terrible and dirty things to you,” he said, leaning close. Her mouth dropped open in shock. He leaned closer, eyes sweeping down her dress. “Maybe if you had passed a winter, I wouldn’t have so many indecent thoughts about you.”

She pressed her lips together, clenching her hands about the arms of her chair. “Indecent?” she repeated, intrigued.

He laughed under his breath, leaned away.

“As I said,” he continued, “very appalling- contemptible- villainous things can happen to those who go too long without winter,” Dany could feel the apples of her smile, “and one summer, there was an evil young prince who sent his loyal guard around the country, kidnapping as many beautiful young maidens as they could find.

“He was looking for a bride, but it was because his father told him it was time to marry, not because he wanted to. So the prince ordered the kidnapped maidens be locked in tall towers all about the lands surrounding his castle. He needed his time, he claimed, to peruse them carefully and select the best one.

“Word of the prince’s cruelty and his thievery from Northern homes by stealing their beloved daughters away spread throughout the country. Mothers wept and fathers ground their teeth together, plotting against the young prince, but they were afraid, because the King’s armies were fierce and numerous. They didn’t know how to punish the prince for his crimes without starting a war that they would be unable to win. Meanwhile, their daughters continued to fill the countryside with sad singing, watching the world from their tower windows.

“A soldier from a nearby country heard about the prince and the kidnapped maidens, and- a gallant heart beating within his breast- rode to scour the land to see if it was true. ‘Lo, it was- and the sight of young maiden after young maiden, trapped and lonely in their prisons, filled him with rage. ‘I will save these innocent women,’ he vowed, ‘I will return them to their families, and leave behind a token of my estimation of the prince’s dishonorable behavior.’

“So the soldier staked out the first tower and waited until nightfall. In the dark of night, he tied his horse in the woods, crept across the field and climbed the tower to find a beautiful young girl asleep in her bed.

“‘Don’t be afraid,’ he told the girl, ‘I am here to rescue you,’ and the maiden threw her arms around him and wept with gratitude.”

Daenerys felt her eyes rolling in her head despite her enjoyment of Jon’s good humor. He noticed her reaction and crooked her a mischievous smile.

“They escaped through the window, the maiden clinging to him as he climbed them both down the steep wall, with only a rope he had carried with him to steady his descent.

“When the prince arrived a few days later to terrorize the girl, he found the room empty, the rope tied to the bedpost and dangling out the open window, a shiny bright red apple sitting on the bed in the maiden’s place. He picked up the perfect gleaming apple- only to see a giant bite taken out of the middle, browning and dry.

“Word of the maiden’s rescue spread throughout the country, and only picked up more life and vigor when five more maidens disappeared in the night, waking up days later safe in their childhood beds.

“The Maiden Rescuer, they called the mysterious helper, for no one saw the soldier with the girls or knew who he was or why he had chosen to defy the prince to help them.

“Soon, there was only one maiden remaining locked in her tower. The prince ordered all his extra guards to stand watch, night and day, at the base of her prison to ensure she not be stolen away from him. The soldier watched their movements from afar, hidden in the mountainside, but couldn’t see how he would be able to get through all the guards to save her.

“Meanwhile, the young maiden, who knew nothing about the Maiden Rescuer or the daring escapes the other kidnapped girls had made, was making her own plans. The maiden had grown up in her own castle far in the North, where she had been taught to shoot with a bow and fight with a blade, how to ride a horse and hunt a boar and skin a deer- and she was very beautiful, but more to the point, she was very sharp and fiercely independent, and it irked her to no end that she had been kidnapped from right under her parents’ noses to be shoved into a dusty little tower for the selfish prince’s amusement.”

The meal had been served by that point, the rest of the table picking up their forks and knives, but Dany rest her cheek upon her hand and listened, riveted to Jon’s story.

“The maiden studied the soldiers below and the countryside around, and she worked on her plans day after day until they were perfect, foolproof. She took a knife she had hidden under her bed from one of her meals and cut off her lovely hair, pulled on the ragged trousers she had mended from one of her skirts, and rubbed her face dirty with soot from the fireplace. She braided her bed sheets together into a long rope, fastened it to the bed, then stood at the window and waited until the guards left their posts to greet their replacements, as they did for a few moments every night. The maiden knew she had only a short time to make her escape, so she took the rope in both hands and jumped without fear.

“She made it halfway down the tower before the rope caught her, and she quickly shimmied the rest of the way down. As she crept across the field towards the woods, she was surprised to see a young man crawling his way across as well, but in the other direction- toward the tower. She didn’t have time to wonder about him, though, so she hid in the grass until he passed by, then made for the woods. It was just her luck, she thought triumphantly, to find a horse tied up and waiting for her at the first tree she came by.

“The next day, the maiden was taking her breakfast at a nearby inn when she heard the terrible news. ‘The Maiden Rescuer has been caught!’ the Innkeeper’s wife moaned in distress. ‘He set out to save the last kidnapped lady, but the prince’s guard caught him and locked him in the tower instead!’

“The maiden looked around in surprise at the distraught faces of the guests at the inn. ‘No!’ they cried out. ‘It can’t be!’ ‘He’ll find a way out-’ ‘But the prince-’ ‘He’ll rescue himself, and the girl- he’s the Maiden Rescuer!’

“She decided to approach the Innkeeper’s wife and- pitching her voice low, as she was still dressed as a boy- asked the good woman to explain what the commotion was about. That was when the maiden finally heard all about the Maiden Rescuer who had saved the other kidnapped women right under the prince’s nose and returned them safely to their families.

“She remembered the young man she had passed in the night, and realized it must have been him- come to save her from her prison, only she had saved herself and he had gotten himself locked up in her place.

“The maiden tried to harden her heart and turn her sights for home, but she remembered the prince’s cruelty, and how maddening it was to be locked away from the world, and that the young man had only been trying to help her, even if he had botched the job- but he couldn’t be completely useless, she reasoned, if he had saved all the other girls-

“The prince was riding to see him, the common folk said, his days were numbered-

“So she determined that she would rescue the Maiden Rescuer, and then she would think no more about him or the prince or maidens locked in towers; she would return home, and woe betide the next man who tried to take her against her will.

“That night, the maiden snuck into the armory of a large House nearby and- praying to the gods of necessity and hard choices- stole a bow, a quiver of arrows, two shortswords and a jacket full of thick, sharp knives. She slung a heavy measure of rope around her neck, then stole a second horse from the stables, reckoning she couldn’t be expected to rescue a man and carry all her stolen weaponry herself.”

Dany laughed. Jon looked at her, eyes twinkling.

“She waited in the woods nearby until just before the guard changed, when she slithered across the grass and stared up at the empty dark window that she herself had until recently been trapped behind. The guards left to greet the others, and she sprang up the steep tower wall, careful to keep in the shadows.

“The young man leapt from the bed when she jumped through the window.

“‘Who are you?’ he demanded, taking in her short hair, her dirty trousers, her mussed and sweaty appearance.

“She grinned at him. ‘I’m the Maiden Rescuer,’ she told him.

“He stared at her in disbelief. ‘But, I’m-’ he started. 

“‘You’re the Maiden  _ Rescuer,’  _ she interrupted him. ‘I’m the  _ Maiden  _ Rescuer.’”

Dany snorted into her wine cup, giggles rising up her throat. Jon grinned at her.

“‘Come on, then,’ the maiden said impatiently, ‘we don’t have all night,’ and she pushed him toward the window while she tied a hurried knot around the bedpost. She gave him a shortsword and two knives, but no amount of pleading or reckoning could compel her to hand over her bow and arrows.

“The maiden crept down first, the soldier close behind, but even halfway down, she could see the outlook was dismal. There was only one, tiny fleeting moment when half the guard moved around the tower before the other half could take their watch, so she peered up at the soldier, and ‘Wait here!’ she ordered him. Then she let go of the rope and dropped the rest of the way to the ground, running with all her might for the woods.

“The guards caught sight of her and trumpeted the call, but the maiden mounted her horse, let loose the other, and notched her bow at the approaching kingsmen. With the guard distracted, the soldier crept the rest of the way down and whistled for his mare.

“Ten men the soldier hacked down, and ten more the maiden shot full of holes- or was it twenty, or was it a hundred?” Jon raised his brow at her in exaggerated wonder. “They escaped before the prince could arrive and rode hard to the north.

“When they stopped for the night, the soldier, full of gratitude and admiration for the maiden, built her a fire and caught her a deer and- after she showed him how to skin it properly- set the beast to roast for a fine dinner. The maiden sat back against a tree and munched on an apple-

“‘Where did you get that apple?’ he asked her. She shrugged. ‘You left it on the bed,’ she told him. ‘I left it as a sign for the prince!’ he exclaimed. ‘A sign of what?’ she asked, mystified.

“‘A sign that it’s detestable to take a single bite out of something whole and lovely and leave it behind without a second thought!’ he said.

“The maiden considered that for a moment.

“‘Well, then,” she said, chewing on the apple, ‘My sign is to leave nothing behind, because nothing has been taken from me that I can’t rescue myself.’

“The soldier knew then that he was in love, and he fell on his knees and begged her to have him as her husband. The girl was unconvinced, though, and instead allowed him to prove his devotion by seeing her safely to her family- and carrying all the heavy goods- until eventually she decided he was in earnest, and wed him at her childhood home far in the North with her parents and siblings, friends and cousins watching.

“‘Thank the gods for the Maiden Rescuer,’ he said to his new wife that night, ‘I would be lost without her.’”

Jon sat back, taking a very long and satisfied drink from his cup.

Dany smiled at him, utterly charmed.

“There you have it,” he said, a bit breathless from his deep swig, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Dany’s eyes followed the moisture on his lips. “My favorite love story.” He gave a little bow and dug in ravenously to his cooling dinner.

“Very romantic,” she said approvingly, “and very well-told.” He huffed a laugh, nodding at his plate.

Dany shifted her chair closer and set her hand on his thigh.

He straightened, side-eyeing her. She flipped her hand under his surcoat and brushed her palm against the coarse fabric of his trousers.

He set his elbows on the table with a loud  _ thunk  _ and pretended to study the silverware in his hands. The Unsullied and their attendants continued to debate and confer around them, plates scraping across the tables.

Dany trailed her hand down the inside of his thigh and squeezed.

“Alright,” Jon said, jolting slightly in his seat, “that’s not- probably shouldn’t-”

“Shouldn’t what?” she said, digging her fingernails in slightly. His leg was warm- and strong, tensing under her hand.

“I seem to remember you making a vow to play fair,” he commented.

She leaned in close. “And what about what you did to me last night?” she asked, voice low. “Was that ‘playing fair?’”

His eyes were dark, and two splashes of color burned on his cheekbones. “I’ve changed my mind about playing fair when we’re alone,” he reasoned.

She lowered her lashes. “I’ve noticed,” she said, his thigh warm against her palm.

“But we’re not alone now,” he pointed out.

She pouted. “I’ve noticed that, too.”

He raised his eyes to the heavens. “By the gods,” he said, “this woman is trying to kill me.”

“Kill you?” Dany repeated in mock indignation. “This was your reward for telling such a delightful story to entertain me,” and she brushed her hand higher, cupping his-

Jon dropped his fork and grabbed her hand, pulling it off him. He squeezed his fingers through hers under the table, then gave her a look and set her palm deliberately on her own knee.

She sighed, loud and suffering.

“What about you, then?” he asked, picking up his fork again. “Don’t you have any stories to entertain  _ me?” _

“Oh, I’ll entertain you,” she said without thinking, and snickered at his somewhat frightened glance.

She picked at her dinner, her stomach much too full of rapture to hunger for sustenance of the kind arrayed on her plate. She took another sip of wine, light-headed and free.

“There is a story that always stayed with me,” Dany said, “not a love story- well, not a falling in love story, but still a love story-” he smiled at her bumbling, “from Pentos,” she said-

 

“-called ‘The Fisherwoman’s Nightmare.’”

Jon took another hearty bite and nodded for her to continue.

She ran her finger up and down the stem of her goblet. “There was a fisherman’s wife who lived on the shores of Pentos with her husband and their six young children- or eight, or ten-”

“-or twenty,” Jon supplied through a mouth full.

“Twenty!” she looked at him with wide eyes. “How many deliveries do you think one woman can manage?” she asked. “She’s a woman, not a cannon, Jon.”

He choked.

“And they were quite happy together, though they were very poor,” Dany continued while Jon gulped some more wine, eyes watering. “The fisherwoman did not in truth go out in the boats with her husband, being as she was quite occupied with her- twenty-” she threw him a look, “children at home, but she would greet the fishermen as they landed back on shore at the end of every day, and she and the children would help carry their haul to the docks and prepare the fish for sale. So, she was known as the fisherwoman, and everyone who knew her and her little family smiled to see her, for though she was not very beautiful, she was kind and warm, tending to every scrape and bruise she came across, whether or not the child was hers, quick with a joke and quicker with a listening ear and a prayer for good fortune for all of her acquaintance.

“One day, a beautiful and vain witch happened across the fisherwoman, and though the witch was primarily concerned with herself and her own beauty, she recognized immediately the good heart within the poor, bedraggled woman. The witch watched her smile at everyone she came across and care for every child, gentle but firm with those who were naughty, kind and loving with those who were hurting. It occurred to the witch that it was within her power to grant this good woman any hidden desire of her heart.

“The fisherwoman trembled when the witch revealed herself to her. ‘Dear fisherwoman,’ the witch said magnanimously, ‘I have come to grant you one wish with my magic, as a reward for your good heart and kind soul.’

“‘Oh, dear,’ the fisherwoman said, astounded. ‘You are so beautiful, I must believe you are a witch, for no mortal could look as lovely as you do.’

“The witch smiled at this very apt flattery, given sincerely and honestly. ‘I can make you as beautiful as I,’ she offered, ‘if that is what you wish.’

“‘But then my husband would not know me,’ she said, distressed at the thought, ‘and my children would be terribly confused.’

“‘Well, go on,’ the witch said, growing impatient. ‘Wish for something else.’

“‘I wish,’ the fisherwoman tried to think quickly, ‘I wish for all people to be happy, and to speak to their neighbors with kindness.’”

Jon smiled, sitting back from his meal, recognizing that this wish never worked out in the end of the story, but appreciating the good-hearted spirit in which it was made.

“‘No, no, no,’ the witch snapped, irritated. ‘You must wish for something for yourself, not for anyone else.’

“‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ the fisherwoman bowed her head humbly. ‘In that case- I wish to always make my dear husband and children feel loved and cherished.’

“‘Nice try,’ the witch shook her head, ‘but that’s still for someone else, no matter how cleverly you word it.’

“The fisherwoman apologized again, mortified that the witch thought she was trying to trick her, but the witch was growing tired of the woman. The fisherwoman could see that the witch wanted to leave, so she knelt, thanked her profusely for her offer, but said she could not think of anything she truly wanted for herself that she did not already have.

“The witch bristled at this statement, growing outraged. ‘Nonsense!’ she exclaimed. ‘I am very powerful! I can give you anything you desire, and you refuse my gift?’

“The fisherwoman tried to apologize yet again, but the witch had stopped listening to her. ‘You must be very foolish,’ the witch told her, ‘therefore, I will grant your wish for you- the wish of all poor and plain women, and you will thank the gods for my gift the rest of your days.’

“The witch raised her hands, the sky crackling behind her. The fisherwoman trembled in fear.

“‘Yes,’ the witch said, a dangerous light in her eyes, ‘you will be rich, beautiful and powerful, more than any other woman. You will be Queen.’”

Jon looked at Daenerys, her palms flat on the table, gazing out at the mass of soldiers before her. He was struck, yet again, by how very small she was- it was painful, sometimes, to him, to realize that so much beauty and so much spirit could be housed in such a small, delicate form. They were all small, though, he reckoned, and they were all delicate, compared to the endless flow of blood and history.

“The witch left her then, and the fisherwoman went home, her heart trembling in fear. She tucked her children in bed and laid desperately with her husband,” Jon’s eyes widened, “and fell into an uneasy sleep,” Dany continued, untroubled.

“The fisherwoman woke the next morning in a great bed with more covers and pillows than she had ever seen. Servants attended her from the moment she opened her eyes, to serve her breakfast, and fix her hair, and arrange her clothes, and fasten her shoes- they even slid a ring on each finger, as though she couldn’t be expected to manage herself.

“She was ushered to court, where she met with many great (and greatly self-important) people, princes and diplomats and ministers and lenders, and she had the most terrible feeling that something was wrong, that something very precious and very, very valuable was slipping away from her.

“That evening, she stepped outside the castle to greet a crowd of commoners who waited, every day, for the chance to speak to her. She approached with wide eyes to find the people overjoyed to see her, enraptured with their beautiful Queen-

“Her husband and children stood at the gate. She rushed to them and took their hands, weeping with joy to have found them again.

“They smiled at her. ‘My Queen,’ they said, bowing in respect.

“She backed away. ‘Do you not know me?’ she asked.

“‘You are the kind and beautiful Queen,’ they said, ‘we love you.’

“But the fisherwoman could see that they did not recognize her, did not know her to be their wife or mother, did not know her to be the fisherwoman. So she turned and ran, but she didn’t know where to go, so she ended up running for the woods.

“What good was it to be Queen when everything else that mattered was gone? she wondered. She wished desperately that this was all a dream, just a terrible nightmare, and that she would wake up and her lovely life could go on, generous and peaceful-

“The fisherman shook her awake, concerned. ‘Are you alright, my dear?’ he asked. She looked up at him and wept with joy.

“‘I had the most terrible nightmare!’ she told him. ‘I dreamed I was a Queen.’

“‘That does not sound like a nightmare,’ the fisherman said.

“‘It was,’ the fisherwoman said, ‘for you did not know me.’”

Jon’s brow furrowed when Dany stopped and stared down her empty wine cup. He realized that was the end of the story, the one she remembered from her childhood, and his stomach warmed with a tight, painful feeling for her.

She lifted her chin to look at him. He turned to her, chest open, eyes gentle. She blinked, her pupils widening. His eyes dropped to her mouth-

“Gods,” Jon pulled back suddenly, eyes darting quickly around the room.

“What?” she said, confused.

“I almost kissed you,” he said, shooting paranoid looks down either side of the table.

Daenerys stilled, glancing at the soldiers finishing up their meals.

“I think...” she said, voice low. “I think I’ll take my leave now.”

He rose when she slid back her chair and stood. The rest of the table stood, and the Unsullied, noticing her movement, rose as well, turned front. She acknowledged them with a graceful tilt of her head and turned her back to leave. She shot him one quick look over her shoulder, white-gold curls sliding down her back, and then she was gone.

Jon sat back down, heart slamming against his ribcage. It was time, he knew, it was past time, but now that there were only minutes left before he would follow after her, now that the moment was upon him-

-it was definitely time, he thought, and drained his wine with determination.

 

Dany paced the floor of her small cabin, twisting her fingers together to keep them from shaking. Her heart was fluttering like a trapped bird, her stomach coiling and coiling with nerves and desire.

She closed her eyes and stilled, breathing deeply.

My lover’s lips are honey sweet   
Along my heart they glide   
My lover’s teeth are sharp with heat   
And eat me from inside

There was a knock on the door, and then he was inside her room, and they were standing close together, and the door was closed again, only now he was on the other side of it.

“Hello,” she said, her voice catching. She felt her whole body flush, but she wasn’t embarrassed or ashamed- a little shy, maybe, now that he was finally here and they were finally going to-

He stepped close to her, took her hands in his and placed them about his neck. She looked up at him, wide-eyed, when he pressed his forehead to hers and spanned her waist with his fingers.

He smelled so- his scent wrapped around her heart and tingled down to her tummy, and it made her feel so good, her skin buzzing with it, so she pressed her nose against his clavicle and breathed.

She felt his fingers snake through the hair at her nape and gave an approving little moan, her body unwinding in his hands.

He nudged her chin up to meet his eyes.

 

Jon drank in the sight of her lovely face. He ran his fingers down her soft cheek. The pink blush there glowed down her neck, beneath her jacket, and he looked at it and felt that familiar sense of awareness, of readiness tingle down into his stomach.

My lover speaks to me in sighs and moans   
Her words are said in whispers and in groans   
What if she tells me this is but a dream?   
I’ll lick her ‘til she wakes me with her scream

He kissed and kissed her pretty lips, his heart pounding in his ears. He wanted her so badly, and he was in her room, backing her toward the bed, and she was clinging to his neck and moaning, wanting him too, and that only made him want her more, need to see and feel her naked in his arms-

The jacket came off first, and then the pretty silk shift. Jon groaned in relief to see her breasts again, and greeted them happily with sloppy little kisses. Her fingers tightened around his biceps, his arms wrapped firmly around her back, and he felt the breath escape her, hitched her up against him when her knees failed.

He pushed her down across the bed and made to join her, but her fingers scrabbled desperately at the collar of his surcoat, and she whined, frustrated, so he leaned back and pulled it off impatiently.

His heart shuddered when he lay his body down on top of hers and felt her soft skin embrace him.

Awareness returned to him some minutes later, her moans cycling in time with his hips grinding against her.

He propped himself up on his elbows and looked at her. She blinked, breathless, her hair tangled about her shoulders, gliding down to frame her lovely round tits.

_ Right, _ Jon thought, and rolled off her, pulling her up to stand in front of him where he sat on the edge of the bed.

She shook and leaned on his shoulders when he nipped at her breasts again, distracted from his purpose. His hands slid to her hips and played along the edges of her pants until he found the fastening and peeled them down her legs.

Dany whined and swayed when he slid his hand between her folds, finding them warm and wet as yesterday. Her knees buckled, so he pulled her down across his lap, his breathing loud to his ears when he swept his eyes up and down her body.

_ Fuck me, _ Jon thought, head buzzing, and ran his hand hungrily over and around her curved bits, and the slim ones too- everywhere, her skin soft and warm and smooth.

Of all the Danys Jon had been privileged enough to encounter, naked Dany was absolutely his favorite.

His hands were shaking, his whole body throbbing at her visceral closeness, but he couldn’t stop to calm himself, so he pushed his fingers inside her, his satisfaction bubbling up his throat to be held once again in her slick wet heat. He groaned and leaned over her to taste her nipples, his sweet relief to touch her so intimately nearly unbearable.

Tell me, dear: how does your perfect form   
Light this great fire in my soul?   
I thought my heart was ruin’d in the storm   
Somehow your skin remade it whole

Her moans were constant, never ending- they filled his ears and fogged up his clouded mind. She was trembling terribly, her hips rolling desperately against his hand.

He leaned back and stared at her, mind blank. She stared at him, eyes wide and glassy, when he pulled his fingers out of her and lifted them to his nose.

His stomach quivered at the smell, sweet, musky and intimate. Her private scent lodged its way down his spine, and he followed it, picked himself up off the bed and set her on her feet.

Jon ripped the covers back, then turned and pushed her down again in front of him. Dany clung to him automatically when he settled himself on top of her, but he gently loosened her grip and moved his way down her naked body.

She clutched her legs around his ears when he poked his nose against her. He slid his hands up to squeeze the giving skin inside her thighs and pushed them apart firmly. She threw herself back on the bed and wailed.

He had a vague sense that this empty-headed focus was familiar to him somehow, as he licked and sucked at her pink skin with its pink opening. He didn’t need to think about anything- he was exactly where he was meant to be, and he was perfectly alive.

Dany bucked against him, her soft thighs trembling under his fingers. She pushed her hands in his hair and screamed- Almost-

She yanked his hair reflexively, and the pain connected the dots for him- it was like fighting, he thought, it was like battle, when he picked up his sword and his mind cleared, his soul awake; finally, he had only one task left to him- to stay alive, but even if he didn’t, he’d die living.

He listened to her moans and the cycling of her hips, and circled his tongue around her, caressing her pretty thighs until she pulsed and pulsed against him, crying in torment and ecstasy.

 

Dany’s heart trembled, her body raw and content.

She brushed a hand over her eyes and felt tears gathering up her chest, so she pulled him up beside her and kissed him desperately instead.

His mouth was wet and slick with her, and she found it dreadfully attractive, rolling herself on top of him to lick at his lips. He clutched her hips and held her down as he pushed up against her. They both groaned.

She crawled back and looked at him expectantly. He stared at her, chest heaving.

“Take off your pants,” she said, figuring he needed some direction just then.

He obliged her quickly, sliding up on the bed. She followed him, settling herself between his legs.

“Oh, Dany,” he sighed, and she laid against him and met his tongue with hers, finally feeling the head of his warm cock when she rubbed against him below. Oh, it was like meeting a lost friend again, cherished and beloved, a sweet longing aching through her from her throbbing clit to her stuttering heart. She ground against him, breathing him in through her mouth-

He slid his hand down her back to hold her in place, and thrust up inside her. She broke away from his mouth, closing her eyes, focusing on his warm cock-

My lover sweetly kisses me   
He listens for my sighs   
He holds me down so gently   
And fucks between my thighs

She wasn’t sure how she ended up on her back again, but he felt so good on top of her, pressing her into the bed, his wiry hairs brushing against her nipples-

She squeezed his shoulders, ran her hands along his arms. Gods, he was so delicious- she bucked her hips up and threw her head back, closing her eyes-

His mouth was on hers again, and he was fucking her into the bed- she ran her hand along his beard, the hairs scratching against her palm-

 

Jon pulled back and looked at her- it felt of great importance to him to make sure he remembered exactly what she looked like under him (around him)-

Her eyes were large, her pupils blown wide. He looked down the length of her body, down her sweet breasts to her little waist, her hips curved up to him, his cock disappearing inside-

Tits, skin, lips, sheath   
Bite my neck with your teeth   
Lick, kiss, breathe, suck   
And fuck, and fuck, and fuck

“Dany,” his voice shook, his body hot. Something immense and very powerful was crawling its way up his spine. His heart trembled in fear and anticipation.

“Jon,”

 

she said.  _ I love you, _ she wanted to say, but decided that might sway his focus, so she tightened her walls around him instead.

He groaned and nipped at her mouth. She could feel him shaking in her arms, trying to push down the release that was approaching, that she wanted for him.

“Jon,” she said again, and wrapped her legs around him, held him close.

Stay with me, my love, my dear   
I’ll keep you safe and cared for.   
If you leave, my heart will fear   
The end (the world is at war).

“Come,” she told him, “I want you to.”

His breathing sped up, gasps that she’d never heard before escaping him. His rhythm devolved, his pace frantic. She watched as he swept his eyes down her body and between them, then stroked his back when he groaned and pulsed inside her.

His heart slowed gradually against her. The great painful wave of gratitude welled up in her again, so she turned her face into his hair and dripped a few tears on his crown.

Eventually he rolled off her and onto his back. She propped up on her elbow to look at him, smiling and lazy. He held an arm over his eyes, breathing deeply.

Dany stilled when she realized he was attempting to control his own wayward tears.

She felt a rush of affection for him and pressed her lips against his cheek. Her legs were sticky, so she got up to find a towel and wash herself.

He was in the same position when she came back. She squinted down at him, then doused all the candles, the room creaking with waves and shadows.

Glee overtook her when she approached again, giddy at the thought of sleeping next to him. She knelt on the bed and gave a little bounce, then shrieked in surprise and clambered over his body to the other side.

“What are you doing?” Jon asked, lifting his arm to peer at her, bemused.

“The sheets are all wet over there,” she told him.

She saw his brow lift in the starlight reflecting off the water through the window. He turned and brushed his hand against the sheets-

“Why are they so wet?” he asked, dumbfounded.

Dany snorted.

“Because you made me so wet,” she said, sitting on her side to face him, the covers resting over her shoulders. She leaned down to brush his mouth with hers. “Because you made me so slippery when you fucked me,” she whispered.

His lashes fluttered, and she watched his eyes dart around the room.

She sat up in delight.

“Jon,” she said, “are you blushing?”

“No,” he said, throwing his arm over his eyes again.

“Yes, you are!” she bounced a few times, grabbing at his arm to pull it down, but he was too strong, so she straddled him instead and leaned close. “You fucked me so good, Jon,” she said throatily, “I left a whole puddle on one side of the bed.”

“Gods,” he groaned into his arm, “she is trying to kill me after all.”

She laughed and slid off him to sit beside him again. She ran her hand across his chest, twisting her fingertips through his hairs.

“I love you,” she said, and it felt good, and true, and pure (yet wonderfully dirty, too).

Jon pushed his arm to his forehead and looked at her.

“You do?” he asked.

“Yes,” she nodded decisively.

“Are you sure?” he said.

Dany blinked. “Of course I’m sure,” she said, slightly irritated. “Why else would I have said it?”

Jon shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, “but the first time you say it to me is right after I made you soak the sheets, so I thought I would check that you were sure.”

Her jaw dropped. His eyes shone at her, his lip quirking smugly.

Her eyes rolled to the heavens, and she collapsed on his chest.

“Gods,” she moaned into his skin,  _ “he’s _ trying to kill  _ me!” _

Jon chuckled and pulled her into his arms.

“No,” he murmured, “you can’t die.”

Their breaths joined and cycled. The boat creaked in the winds of storms blowing down from the North.

They slept.


End file.
